Individualist 


Philip  Gibbs 


, 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST 


THE 

INDIVIDUALIST 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

PHILIP  GIBBS 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  MIDDLE  OF  THE  ROAD, 
THE  RECKLESS  LADY, 
HEIRS  APPARENT,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

is  one  of  Philip  Gibbs"  early  novels  and 

is    printed    by    special    arrangement    with 

GRANT    RICHARDS,    LTD.,    PUBLISHERS 

LONDON 


PRINTED    IK    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST 


2135787   ' 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST 


CHAPTER  I 

A  LETTER  had  been  delivered  to  the  mistress  of  Long 
Stretton  village  school  as  she  sat  at  her  desk  in  the 
classroom,  where  thirty-five  boys  and  girls  of  varying 
ages  and  sizes  had  been  listening  to  the  story  of  Robin 
Hood  and  his  merry  men.  The  bearer  of  the  note 
was  the  page-boy  from  the  Hall,  rising  four  feet  and 
a  half,  in  tight  little  livery  with  many  gold  buttons. 
A  thundering  knock  at  the  school  door  had  announced 
his  coming  and  startled  Alicia  Frensham  and  her 
children  in  the  very  midst  of  the  delectable  adventure 
of  the  outlaw  and  Friar  Tuck.  Then  with  a  solemnity 
which  did  honour  to  his  training,  he  advanced  across 
the  school  floor  in  a  fire  of  eyes  and  delivered  the  note 
to  the  woman  who,  in  this  very  room,  had  spanked 
him  not  longer  than  six  months  before. 

"A  note  from  the  'All,  miss." 

"My  dear  Tommy,  why  not  say  Hall?  Have  you 
forgotten  my  lessons  already?" 

She  reproved  him  with  her  eyes  as  she  slipped  her 
paper  knife  through  the  envelope.  As  soon  as  she 
began  to  read,  however,  Tommy  took  a  deep  breath, 

after  the  conscientious  fulfilment  of  his  duty,  and,  turn- 

7 


8  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

ing  round,  put  his  tongue  out  to  his  former  school- 
fellows. 

The  letter  he  had  delivered  contained  the  following 
message: — 

"To  Miss  Alicia  Frensham. 
"My  dear, 

"My  sister  and  I  would  be  so  much  obliged  if 
you  would  call  at  the  Hall  after  school  hours.  Mr. 
Stretton  has  suddenly  telegraphed  to  say  he  will  be  with 
us  this  afternoon,  and  there  is  so  much  to  do  hurriedly 
in  which  your  nimble  fingers  and  admirable  taste  would 
be  invaluable.  Pray  forgive  my  troubling  you  during 
school  time,  and  believe  me, 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Cecily  Wingfield. 

"P.S. — As  Mr.  Stretton  is  our  nephew  and  heir,  we 
are  naturally  desirous  to  do  him  honour. 

"PJSS. — My  sister  begs  me  to  say  she  hopes  very 
much  you  will  come. 

"Stretton  Hall,  Monday." 

The  mistress  took  a  sheet  of  notepaper  and  wrote 
her  answer  swiftly: — 

"My  dear  Miss  Wingfield. 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  and  help. 
"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"Alicia  Frensham." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  9 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  with  the  end  of  her 
penholder  in  her  mouth.  Then  she  added: — 

"P.S. — /  am  sure  you  will  rejoice  to  see  your  nephew 
again  after  so  many  years." 

Before  the  boy  went  with  this  note  the  mistress 
took  him  by  the  arm,  pulling  him  towards  her  and 
rumpling  his  hair,  in  spite  of  his  shout  of  protest  and 
his  endeavours  to  twist  from  her  strong  white  hand. 
A  shrill  burst  of  laughter  rattled  the  school  windows, 
renewed  when,  after  a  pat  on  his  chubby  cheek,  the 
boy  wriggled  himself  free,  and  with  all  his  dignity  gone 
made  a  dash  for  the  door,  and  so  escaped. 

"Silence!"  cried  the  schoolmistress,  clapping  her 
hands. 

For  an  hour  more  the  class  was  continued,  and  after 
the  reading  lesson  the  children  copied  out  a  passage  of 
prose.  The  mistress  went  down  their  ranks,  bending 
over  the  shoulder  of  one  to  correct  a  misspelt  word, 
guiding  the  pencil  of  another,  letting  her  hand  rest 
lightly  on  the  flaxen  curls  of  a  tiny  girl.  As  she  stood 
like  this,  the  sun  streaming  through  the  leaded  window- 
panes  caught  her  hair,  giving  a  reddish  tint  to  what  in 
a  dull  light  was  dark  brown,  and  deepened  the  colour 
in  her  cheeks.  She  was  a  tall,  thin  girl,  simply  dressed 
in  black,  rather  flat-chested,  and  with  noticeably 
large  hands,  though  white  and  well-modelled.  Her 
face  was  hardly  beautiful.  Many  people  fond  of  the 
plump  insipid  prettiness  of  the  picture  postcard  kind 
would  have  called  it  plain.  Yet  with  her  brown 


10  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

serious  eyes,  her  high  cheek  bones  touched  with  car- 
nation red,  her  long  sensitive  mouth  and  pointed  chin, 
and  her  brown  hair  coiled  loosely  above  a  low  broad 
brow,  there  was  a  wild-rose  air  about  her  that  was 
curiously  haunting  to  some  men,  and  to  some  women 
too. 

There  was  a  virginity  in  her  eyes,  and  a  touch  of 
mysticism.  Yet,  when  she  laughed,  which  was  often, 
her  merriment  made  her  face  seem  very  roguish,  so 
that  those  who  had  been  scared  by  her  saint-like  look 
were  startled  by  a  hint  of  devilry. 

The  words  of  a  friend  who  knew  her  later  hit  off 
the  character  in  a  curious  way,  suggestive,  but  not 
altogether  accurate.  He  was  an  artist,  and  the 
phrase  came  naturally  to  his  lips. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said,  with  a  little  gasp.  "There 
is  Rossetti's  Beata  Beatrix  transformed  into  a  wood- 
nymph  by  Giorgione." 

Then  he  said  more  deliberately,  "There  is  passion 
behind  those  brown  eyes — and  I  would  not  be  the  man 
to  run  up  against  that  pointed  chin." 

There  was  one  expression,  however,  that  quite 
altered  the  face  of  Alicia  Frensham,  and  yet  was  often 
to  be  seen.  It  was  when  some  child  suddenly  took 
her  hand  and  fondled  it,  or  when  she  caught  up  some 
little  one  who  had  fallen  and  cried  to  her  for  help. 
Or,  again,  it  might  be  seen  for  a  moment  when  she 
dismissed  the  school  and  stood  at  the  gate  with  a  brood 
of  youngsters  about  her  skirts.  It  was  an  expression 
of  hungry  love,  the  look  one  may  see  on  the  face  of  a 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  11 

young  wife  expecting  her  firstborn,  and  filled  with  the 
foreknowledge  of  maternity. 

The  mothers  of  Long  Stretton  said  that  Miss 
Frensham  was  "fair  daft  on  childer,"  and  indeed  it 
was  a  kind  of  madness  with  her.  People  who  had 
only  seen  her  demure,  with  a  face  like  a  saint  in  a 
stained-glass  window,  were  astonished  if  they  suddenly 
met  her  down  a  lane  or  on  the  moors  racing  a  bevy 
of  her  school  children  with  flying  skirts  and  her  brown 
hair  unlooped  upon  her  ears,  and  in  her  eyes  the  look 
of  an  untamed  creature.  Some  of  the  mothers  were 
almost  jealous  of  her,  for  their  babes  would  sometimes 
cry  to  be  taken  to  her,  or  when  they  left  her. 

She  had  pluck  too.  When  she  had  first  come  to 
the  school  three  years  before  there  was  a  spirit  of 
mutiny  and  disorder  among  half  a  dozen  of  the  elder 
boys,  who  had  been  the  terror  of  the  former  mistress. 
One  of  them,  the  son  of  the  butcher,  a  strong  lubberly 
youth  of  twelve,  had  thrown  a  ruler  at  her  head  when 
she  had  commandeered  some  sticky  sweetstuff  which 
he  had  been  handing  round  to  his  comrades.  The 
stick  had  cut  her  cheek  open,  but  with  the  blood  flow- 
ing down  her  face  she  sprang  at  the  young  scoundrel 
and  dragging  him  from  the  bench  gave  him  the  smart- 
est hiding  he  had  had  in  his  life.  The  fellow  fought 
with  tooth  and  nail  and  kicked  her  with  his  hobnailed 
boots,  but  at  the  end  of  five  minutes  he  howled  for 
mercy.  That  evening  Squire  the  butcher  came  round 
to  her  schoolhouse  with  the  boy,  who  was  still  aching 
from  her  punishment  (and  with  another  from  his  father 


12  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

on  the  top  of  it)  and  thanked  her  warmly  for  having 
dealt  so  admirably  with  "the  young  varmint."  He  also 
sent  round  a  shoulder  of  mutton  and  some  pig's  trot- 
ters the  next  morning  in  token  of  his  esteem.  It  was 
a  moral  victory,  and  from  that  day  there  was  no  other 
mutiny  in  the  village  school. 

To-day,  when  the  note  had  come  down  from 
Stretton  Hall,  Alicia  Frensham  dismissed  her  class 
punctually  at  twelve,  and  did  not  stand  so  long  as 
usual  at  the  gate  watching  her  children  as  they  went 
home  to  dinner,  dancing  and  running  with  merry 
squeals  and  shouts.  She  packed  them  off  promptly, 
and  shutting  the  door  after  the  last  small  boy,  tidied 
up  her  papers  and  cleaned  the  black-board  with  swift 
deft  hands. 

Then  she  stood  for  a  moment  with  her  elbows  on 
the  window  sill,  leaning  her  pointed  chin  on  the  palm 
of  her  hand  and  looking  down  the  village  street  with 
its  old  grey  stone  houses  towards  a  clump  of  trees 
beyond,  through  which  appeared  the  gables  of  Stretton 
Hall.  She  was  thinking  of  "Mr.  Stretton,"  as  his  aunt 
had  called  him  in  her  prim,  polite  letter.  She  won- 
dered whether  he  would  be  at  all  like  her  mental 
picture  of  him,  or  would  correspond  to  his  aunt's  en- 
thusiastic descriptions  of  his  virtues.  Stretton  Wing- 
field  was  a  name  often  seen  in  the  papers  during  recent 
days.  His  adventures  as  an  explorer  in  Central  Africa 
had  been  chronicled  at  length  and  made  him  a  popular 
hero  for  a  week  or  two.  Then  his  two  novels,  The 
Under  Secretary  and  A  Social  Atom,  had  attracted  the 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  13 

attention  of  the  reviewers  by  their  peculiar  mixture  of 
cynicism  and  sentiment,  by  their  clever  satire  upon 
modern  politics  and  society,  and  by  their  bold  attack 
upon  English  conventions.  Alicia  Frensham  had  read 
the  review  of  the  last  book  in  the  Daily  Telegraph, 
which  had  devoted  a  column  of  adverse  criticism  to  it. 
"Mr.  Wingfield  is  trading  upon  the  reputation  of  his 
father  as  the  wit  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  the 
licensed  jester  of  society,  to  make  cheap  epigrams  about 
venerable  institutions  and  to  slander  the  profession  of 
politics  of  which  his  father  was  a  distinguished  orna- 
ment. We  advise  him  in  all  friendliness  to  remember 
his  youthfulness  and  to  cultivate  more  reverence,"  etc. 

She  remembered  some  such  phrases  as  these  about 
a  book  which  she  had  read  with  intense  interest  and 
with  a  constant  feeling  of  astonishment  that  it  was 
written  by  the  nephew  of  the  two  spinster  ladies  at 
Stretton  Hall. 

Their  very  name  was  associated  in  her  mind  with  a 
beautiful  old-fashioned  morality,  with  "early  Vic- 
torian" views  of  life,  with  sweet  and  fragrant  charity. 
But  the  book  appealed  to  her  own  secret  spirit  of 
rebellion  against  orthodoxy,  class  distinction,  and  social 
conventions.  It  was  the  work  of  a  revolutionary,  of 
a  wandering  social  atom  who  had  come  into  touch  with 
the  highest  and  lowest  phases  of  humanity,  and  who 
recognised  under  the  veneer  of  cilivisation  the  primi- 
tive conditions  and  passions  of  the  savage  people  among 
whom  the  writer  had  lived  for  a  time  in  Central  Africa. 
In  her  innocence  of  the  world  she  could  not  test  the 


14  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

truthfulness  of  the  author's  satire  of  civilisation,  but 
she  knew  enough  of  her  own  heart  to  be  touched  and 
even  to  be  excited  by  his  revelation  and  tacit  approval 
of  the  poetry  of  passion  which,  in  the  author's  words, 
* 'proved  the  divine  relationship  between  heroes,  saints, 
and  brutes." 

When  Alicia  Frensham  passed  through  the  iron  gates 
of  Stretton  Hall,  and  looked  up  at  the  grey  old  building 
with  its  pointed  gables,  its  mullioned  windows,  its 
leaden  water  pipes  decorated  with  the  Wingfield  crest 
and  the  date  1541,  its  oak  doors,  worm-eaten  and  worn 
by  centuries  of  weather,  its  smooth  green  lawns,  and 
the  spreading  cedar  trees  beneath  which  Charles  II. 
had  once  kissed  the  hand  of  Cecily  Wingfield  when 
he  left  a  three  days'  hiding  place,  she  thought  again 
how  strange  it  was  that  Stretton  Wingfield,  the  heir 
to  this  house  and  to  all  its  ancient  and  honoured 
traditions,  should  have  written  a  book  so  socialistic 

in  its  philosophy  and  so  revolutionary  in  spirit. 

***** 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Cecily  Wingfield,  who  was 
waiting  for  her  at  the  hall  door,  "we  are  so  excited!" 

"You  must  be,"  said  Alicia,  taking  the  little  lady's 
thin  hand  and  touching  it  with  her  lips. 

"You  see  it  is  a  great  event.  Mr.  Stretton  has  not 
been  here  since  he  was  sixteen  years  old — that  was 
when  he  broke  one  of  the  windows  with  a  tennis  ball. 
I  have  told  you  about  it,  my  dear.  It  was  the  one 
that  had  Sir  Charles  Wingfield's  name  on  it,  scratched 
with  a  diamond,  and  the  date  1642  with  the  legend 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  15 

'Dulce  et  decorum  est  pro  patria  mori.'  I  cried  when 
it  was  broken — it  was  as  if  a  piece  had  been  chipped 
out  of  my  heart,  and  I  remember  Stretton  laughed  and 
said,  'Old  things  must  give  way  to  new,  and  a  tennis 
ball  is  more  harmless  than  a  cannon  ball.'  I  remem- 
ber, too,  poor  Agnes  would  not  allow  him  any  pudding 
that  day,  and  he  was  so  angry  he  took  the  afternoon 
train  to  his  father's  house  in  town,  saying  that  old 
maids  and  young  boys  did  not  harmonise." 

The  lady  smiled  at  the  recollection,  though  her  grey 
eyes  twinkled  a  little  with  moisture  at  the  memory  of 
the  tears  she  had  shed  over  the  precious  piece  of  glass. 

"Mr.  Stretton  is  a  man  now,  and  I  hope  we  shall 
harmonise  a  little  better.  Of  course,  as  our  heir  we 
are  anxious  to  do  everything  to  please  him.  I  hope 
he  will  not  be  too  dull.  Poor  Agnes  is  dreadfully  afraid 
he  will  be  bored." 

It  was  a  characteristic  of  the  two  ladies  that  they 
always  spoke  of  each  other  as  "poor  Agnes"  and  "poor 
Cecily."  It  was  perhaps  an  unconscious  admission  of 
disappointment  and  pathos  of  two  lives  which  had 
always  been  rather  lonely  and  filled  with  unsatisfied 
hopes. 

"I  trust  he  will  not  think  the  place  dilapidated," 
continued  Miss  Cecily  anxiously,  still  holding  Alicia's 
hand  and  giving  it  now  and  again  an  affectionate  little 
squeeze.  "We  are  so  anxious  not  to  destroy  any  of 
the  characteristics  of  the  old  house  and  garden,  that 
perhaps  we  have  not  been  sufficiently  attentive  to 
modern  improvements.  What  do  you  think,  Alicia?" 


16  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"I  should  hate  anything  modern  inside  these  gates," 
said  the  school-mistress  with  a  sincerity  that  was  very 
pleasing  to  Miss  Cecily,  "and  nothing  could  improve 
a  place  so  perfectly  beautiful." 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  lady  with  another  gentle  squeeze 
at  Alicia's  hand.  "But  some  people  reproach  us  for 
letting  it  go  'to  rack  and  ruin,'  as  they  say,  little  know- 
ing how  cruelly  the  words  hurt  us.  Only  yesterday 
Mrs.  Bellamy  said  she  could  not  think  why  we  did  not 
have  a  new  doorstep  to  replace  this  hollowed-out  old 
stone.  'It  is  almost  a  danger,  my  dear,'  she  said." 

"And  what  did  you  say  to  such  an  abominable  idea?J> 
said  Alicia. 

Miss  Cecily's  voice  shook  a  little  with  stress  of 
emotion,  and  her  gesture  was  dramatic. 

"  'I  would  rather  die,'  I  said,  'than  move  the  stone 
which  has  been  worn  by  the  footsteps  of  my  fore- 
fathers, and  which  has  been  the  threshold  of  our  home, 
for  five  centuries.'  -  Perhaps  I  spoke  a  little  too 
sharply." 

"I  should  have  been  brutal  with  such  a  woman," 
said  Alicia.  "It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  some  people 
go  through  life  without  seeing  any  of  its  beauty  and 
poetry.  It  is  as  if  they  had  been  'born  blind.' ' 

"Well,  you  at  any  rate  were  born  kind  and  good," 
said  Miss  Cecily.  "Come  in,  my  dear,  and  help  us 
with  those  willing  hands  of  yours — strong  and  philan- 
thropic hands  I  always  say  to  poor  Agnes." 

Alicia  was  not  astonished  at  the  confusion  and 
bewilderment  which  reigned  inside  the  Hall.  She 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  17 

knew  how  trivial  an  event  would  disturb  the  harmony 
of  a  household  composed  mostly  of  old  people,  whose 
lives  had  been  spent  away  from  the  turmoil  of  the 
modern  world  in  this  haunt  of  ancient  peace.  To-day 
the  telegram  from  Stretton  Wingfield,  which  lay  care- 
fully smoothed  out  on  the  polished  oak  table  in  the 
hall,  was  a  message  intensely  exciting,  not  only  to  the 
two  maiden  ladies,  but  to  the  butler  who  had  served 
them  since  their  childhood,  to  the  housekeeper  who 
tyrannised  over  them  in  all  matters  of  cleaning, 
cooking,  and  household  management,  to  the  gardener 
who  was  also  coachman,  and  to  the  boarhound  whose 
devotion  to  the  two  ladies  was  only  equalled  by  the 
love  they  lavished  on  his  massive  and  venerable  head. 
Alicia  sat  down  on  one  of  the  oak  settles  and  laughed 
softly  at  the  scene  of  flurry  that  was  taking  place  in 
the  Hall.  Miss  Agnes,  with  a  patch  of  flour  on  her 
nose,  was  down  on  her  knees  before  a  trunk  full  of 
ancient  tapestries  from  which  she  was  selecting 
hangings  for  her  nephew's  bedroom,  utterly  perplexed 
as  to  whether  the  Tudor  set  with  the  hunting  scene, 
or  the  Stuart  set  depicting  the  progress  of  Cupid 
through  "the  fayre  Realme  of  Love,"  would  be  most 
suitable  for  a  bachelor's  room.  In  after  years,  when- 
ever Alicia  smelt  the  fragrance  of  lavender  and  cam- 
phor, there  would  come  to  her  mind  the  picture  of  the 
frail  little  lady  with  yellow-grey  hair,  in  her  black  silk 
dress*  and  old  lace  fichu,  on  her  knees  before  the  oak 
chest  with  the  faded  embroideries  around  her  on  the 
floor.  And  at  this  memory  Alicia's  eyes  would  be  moist, 


18  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

and  a  hundred  other  memories  of  the  peaceful  old  home 
with  its  two  gracious  women  would  come  flooding  back 
to  her. 

To-day  "poor"  Miss  Agnes  was  almost  distracted 
with  her  anxieties  to  have  everything  in  order  for  the 
sudden  visit  of  her  nephew.  Blinkworthy,  the  butler, 
had  lost  his  nerve  completely,  and  what  was  more 
disastrous,  the  old  man  had  also  lost  in  his  flurry  the 
key  of  the  wine  vault  from  which  he  wished  to  get  a 
bottle  of  the  port  laid  down  on  Stretton  Wingfield?s 
first  birthday.  He  had  made  several  journeys  to  the 
cellar  to  gaze  fondly  at  the  dust-buried  bottles,  but 
after  his  last  visit  he  had  carried  away  the  key  and  put 
it  down  in  some  "safe  place,"  the  whereabouts  of  which 
baffled  his  failing  memory.  Miss  Agnes  heard  the  news 
with  a  little  shriek  of  dismay,  and  Blinkworthy  stood 
with  his  hands  pressed  to  his  bald  head  striving,  so  it 
seemed,  to  squeeze  out  the  secret  of  the  fatal  hiding 
place.  Mrs.  Hibbert,  the  housekeeper,  had  also  come 
to  Miss  Agnes  with  a  tale  of  woe,  and  with  her  hands 
on  her  waist  wheezed  out  a  prolix  description  of  the 
dirt  she  had  found  lurking  in  unsuspected  places. 
"Which,  my  dearie,"  she  said,  "is  coals  of  fire  upon  the 
head  of  that  hussy  Betty,  who  should  be  fair  ashamed 
of  herself,  and  like  enough  to  send  Master  Stretton 
back  to  town  with  a  stomach-ache." 

To  add  to  the  dramatic  effect  of  this  domestic  scene, 
Lion,  the  boarhound,  disconcerted  by  this  unaccus- 
tomed clatter  of  tongues,  roamed  about  the  rooms  in 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  19 

a  dismal  way,  raising  his  great  head  at  regular  inter- 
vals to  bark  with  a  deep  and  mournful  note. 

''My  dear,"  said  Miss  Cecily  presently,  when  after 
Alicia's  advice  the  Stuart  tapestries  had  been  settled 
upon  for  Stretton  Wingfield's  room,  "my  dear,  what- 
ever is  that  flour  on  your  nose?" 

Miss  Agnes's  transparent  skin  flushed  with  a  beau- 
tiful pink,  and  she  hurriedly  rubbed  the  wrong  side  of 
her  nose. 

"It  was  a  little  sentimental  idea  of  mine,"  she  con- 
fessed. "I  have  been  making  the  same  pudding  which 
I  refused  poor  Stretton  when  he  broke  the  window. 
I — I  thought  I  would  make  amends  for  that  past  sever- 
ity. Hibbert  wanted  to  keep  me  out  of  the  kitchen, 
but  I  insisted.  It  was  a  foolish  whim,  but  it  pleased 
me." 

Thereupon  she  laughed  in  a  sweet  silvery  voice  that 
always  seemed  to  Alicia  like  the  high  notes  of  the 
rosewood  spinet  in  the  drawing-room.  Miss  Agnes  and 
Alicia  joined  in  her  mirth,  but  in  the  heart  of  each  of 
them,  that  simple  little  thought  of  making  the  pudding 
which  Stretton  had  liked  as  a  boy  touched  some  chord 
of  sentiment  that  brought  a  little  moisture  to  their 
eyes,  though  they  knew  not  why. 

Alicia  was  appointed  to  the  task  of  plucking  flowers 
from  the  garden  and  arranging  them  in  the  hall  and 
drawing-room.  It  was  a  task  of  some  delicacy,  for  she 
was  accompanied  by  old  Birch  the  gardener,  to  whom 
the  flowers  were  as  well-beloved  children.  Anxious 
as  he  was  to  please  "the  young  master,"  as  he  called 


20  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Stretton  Wingfield,  he  could  not  refrain  from  groaning 
dismally  when  Alicia's  scissors  went  swiftly  to  work 
among  the  blooms  which  he  had  tended  and  watered 
and  watched  since  their  birth. 

"  'Tis  allays  the  same,"  he  said,  shaking  his  white 
old  head.  "Wimmen  will  allays  throw  their  jewels 
afore  swine." 

"Swine!"  cried  Alicia,  pointing  her  scissors  above  the 
head  of  a  big  tea-rose.  "Is  that  what  you  call  Mr. 
Stretton?" 

"The  Lord  forbid,"  said  the  old  man  hastily.  "Mas- 
ter Stretton  do  be  one  of  his  family — a  real  Wingfield, 
God  be  praised.  But  he  don't  take  much  account  for 
flowers,  judging  as  how  he  trampled  on  the  beds  when 
he  was  here  a  boy,  just  ten  years  since.  I  could  have 
broken  his  young  bones,  I  could!" 

"Boys  will  be  boys,  you  know,  Birch,"  said  Alicia, 
having  no  mercy  on  the  tea-rose,  though  the  old  man 
touched  her  arm  with  a  trembling  hand  and  with  an 
involuntary  gesture  of  restraint. 

"They  be  mainly  young  devils,"  he  growled.  "My 
word,  miss,"  he  added,  peering  with  gloomy  eyes  into 
Alicia's  apron — one  of  Miss  Cecily's — "you've  been 
an'  plucked  all  my  beauties — the  very  best,  an'  no 
mistake." 

Alicia  laughed  gaily,  and  infected  by  the  excitement 
which  had  taken  possession  of  the  whole  household 
bounded  into  the  hall  with  her  apron  full  of  blossoms 
which  she  emptied,  a  heap  of  fragrant  colour,  upon 
the  round  table. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  21 

"How  wonderful!  How  beautiful!"  she  cried,  and 
put  her  face  into  the  very  midst  of  the  fresh  flowers 
whose  fragrance  filled  the  whole  hall.  Then,  as  she 
raised  her  head,  the  bloom  upon  her  own  cheeks  seem- 
ing to  have  caught  the  tint  of  the  deep  red  roses  and 
dark  carnations,  she  heard  a  startled  cry  from  Miss 
Cecily,  and  her  face  being  toward  the  open  doorway, 
she  saw  framed  in  the  porch  the  figure  of  a  man.  It 
was  Stretton  Wingfield,  who  had  come  in  the  morning 
instead  of  the  afternoon,  thereby  disconcerting  his 
maiden  aunts  to  a  degree  of  which  he  could  have  had 
no  conception. 


CHAPTER  II 

"MAY  I  come  in?"  said  Stretton  Wingfield,  standing 
on  the  threshold,  smiling  with  quiet  amusement  upon 
the  two  ladies  as  he  glanced  from  one  to  another  with 
quick  eyes.  Alicia  remembered  afterwards,  though  she 
was  not  really  conscious  of  it  at  the  time,  that  his  eyes 
had  looked  longest  upon  herself. 

It  was  Miss  Agnes  who  first  recovered  from  her 
surprise.  She  went  forward  a  little  nervously  and  took 
her  nephew's  hands  in  her  own,  drawing  him  indoors. 

"Stretton!  my  dear  Stretton!"  Then  looking  up  at 
him  she  laughed  in  her  quiet,  gentle  way,  and  said 
simply,  "What  a  fine  big  fellow  you  have  grown!" 

Stretton  Wingfield  echoed  her  laugh,  quite  boyishly, 
and  leaning  down  kissed  the  little  lady  on  her  forehead. 

"Why,  Aunt  Agnes,"  he  said,  "you're  looking 
younger  than  ever,  by  Jove  you  are!" 

He  turned  to  Miss  Cecily  and  gave  her  his  kiss  also, 
laughing  again,  with  a  whimsical  look  in  his  grey  eyes, 
when  he  saw  how  she  blushed  as  if  she  were  still  a 
young  girl. 

"My  dear  Stretton,"  said  Miss  Agnes,  "why  did  you 
not  let  us  know  your  train?  We  should  have  sent  the 
trap  to  meet  you.  And  we  are  so  disordered.  Pray 

forgive  the  confusion.     We  were  so  anxious  to  have 

22 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  23 

everything  just  as  it  should  be  for  your  welcome.  If 
we  had  only  known  the  time  of  your  arrival!" 

Both  ladies  broke  into  anxious  little  apologies,  but 
he  interrupted  them  with  affectionate  bluntness. 

"Don't  you  bother  about  that,  Aunt  Agnes.  I'm 
as  happy  as  a  cricket  to  see  the  old  place  again.  It's 
like  putting  the  clock  back.  What,  Lion!  are  you 
still  alive,  you  old  ruffian!"  He  bent  down  and 
fondled  the  dog's  head,  but  as  he  did  so  his  eyes  rested 
again  on  Alicia,  who  was  busy  with  the  flowers. 

Miss  Cecily  saw  his  glance,  and  taking  Alicia's  hand 
drew  her  forward. 

"Alicia,  my  dear,  this  is  our  nephew,"  she  said, 
with  a  quaint  touch  of  old-fashioned  formality. 
"And  this,  Stretton,  is  our  dear  young  friend,  Miss 
Frensham.  She  is  the  mistress  of  our  little  school, 
and  a  most  successful  educationist." 

"Indeed!"  said  Stretton,  with  just  a  slightly  quiz- 
zical elevation  of  his  eyebrows.  "That  sounds  almost 
alarming!" 

The  words  might  have  seemed  impolite,  but  for 
the  frank  smile  with  which  he  met  Alicia's  eyes.  And, 
again,  she  might  have  resented  the  length  of  time 
for  which  he  held  her  hand,  as  he  made  an  evident  study 
of  her  face.  But  although  outwardly  self-possessed, 
Alicia  was  really  excited  at  this  meeting  with  a  man 
whose  book  had  lain  by  her  bedside  for  many  nights, 
and  whose  opinions  had  recently,  to  some  extent, 
shaped  her  character.  So  that  she  hardly  noticed  either 
his  words  or  his  manner. 


24  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

They  were  left  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room 
for  an  hour,  while  the  aunts  hurriedly  completed 
their  domestic  arrangements,  and  Stretton  Wingfield's 
cool,  quiet  behaviour  and  his  seeming  absence  of  all 
self-consciousness,  or  at  least  of  "shyness,"  to  use 
a  simple  word,  soon  put  Alicia  at  her  ease.  She  found 
herself  talking  to  him  in  her  usual  frank,  outspoken 
way. 

"How  extraordinarily  like  you  are  to  that  portrait 
of  Sir  Rupert  over  there." 

Stretton  Wingfield  strolled  over  to  the  picture  of  a 
young  man  in  a  cavalier  costume. 

"By  Jove,  yesl  I  recognise  myself.  Heredity's  an 
extraordinary  thing.  The  Wingfield  eyes  and  full 
under-lip  come  out  even  in  my  delicate  little  aunts. 
Look  at  that  Puritan  lady.  That  is  Aunt  Agnes  three 
centuries  ago.  I  am  rather  interested  in  heredity.  I 
once  lived  with  a  tribe  in  Africa  of  whom  the  chief, 
who  was  still  living  with  his  sixty  wives,  had  something 
like  eight  hundred  descendants — children  and  grand- 
children, and  great-grandchildren.  It  was  amazing  how 
the  old  man  had  impressed  his  ugly  face  upon  a  whole 
race  as  it  were." 

"Is  that  really  true?"  said  Alicia. 

"Oh,  absolutely.  But  I  hope  Rupert  has  not  be- 
queathed me  his  character  as  well  as  his  face.  He 
was  a  weak  sort  of  sensualist,  I  believe,  and  a  rank 
egoist,  to  judge  from  his  diary." 

Alicia  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  should  not  think  you  were  weak,"  she  said. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  25 

Stretton  Wingfield  threw  her  a  quick  glance,  and 
then  laughed  with  a  passing  sign  of  self -consciousness. 

"My  worthy  uncle,  the  War  Minister,  thinks  I  am 
as  unstable  as  water.  That  is  because  I  have  preferred 
a  wandering  life  to  the  conventional  career  of  a  party 
politician,  at  the  heel  of  the  Whip." 

"I  read  something  like  that  in  your  last  book,"  said 
Alicia. 

"Have  you  read  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  if  surprised  that  she 
should  have  read  a  novel  which  was  not  exactly  written 
for  young  unmarried  women. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"It  was  very  frank  and  sincere.  I  admired  it  im- 
mensely." 

He  coloured  and  laughed  with  evident  pleasure. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so.  It  is  frank  certainly.  I 
don't  know  about  its  being  sincere.  I  am  afraid  we 
are  none  of  us  sincere  nowadays,  except  by  accident, 
and  then  we  are  devilish  ashamed  of  ourselves  and 
make  haste  to  take  to  cover." 

"I  am  sure  you  do  yourself  an  injustice,"  said  Alicia 
quickly.  "I  should  hate  to  think  such  things  could 
be  written  without  sincerity.  It  would  be  almost 
wicked." 

Stretton  Wingfield  was  startled.  This  girl  did  not 
talk  like  ordinary  women,  for  he  had  been  so  long 
accustomed  to  shallow  and  flippant  chit-chat  which 
passes  for  conversation  in  modern  drawing-rooms  that 
Alicia's  candour  and  truthfulness  of  expression  checked 


26  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

the  levity  with  which  he  usually  treated  women  of 
his  own  class  and  race,  and  reminded  him  by  some 
strange  psychological  freak  of  conversations  he  had  had 
in  uncivilised  places  with  naked  black  men  and  women. 

He  stammered  for  a  moment  before  he  could  adjust 
his  mind  to  this  sudden  challenge  to  his  real  self, 
before,  as  it  were,  he  could  yet  get  outside  his  ordinary 
pose. 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  the  true  Ego  in  that  last 
book  of  mine,  though  I  believe  I  exaggerated  certain 
views  which  I  had  but  felt  rather  than  reasoned  out. 
Coming  straight  from  the  Zambesi  I  was  rather  like 
Richard  Burton  in  my  desire  to  shock  the  orthodox 
and  outrage  the  conventional.  I " 

He  pulled  himself  up  and  began  to  question  Alicia 
in  a  polite,  interested  way  about  her  own  work.  She 
talked  of  her  love  for  children,  and  he  agreed  with 
her,  speaking  with  a  certain  tenderness. 

"I  always  feel  a  little  ashamed,  and  very  old,  when 
I  play  with  little  children.  One  regrets  one's  loss  of 
innocence,  and  realises  how  poor  a  thing  is  knowledge." 

"I  feel  like  that  too,"  said  Alicia. 

"Ah,  no,"  he  answered  quickly,  smiling  at  her. 
"You  have  not  lost  the  spirit  of  childhood.  I  can  see 
that  in  your  eyes." 

She  lowered  her  eyes  before  him,  and  a  sudden  sense 
of  alarm  at  the  intimacy  of  his  conversation  made  her 
silent. 

Later,  when  in  Miss  Cecily's  bedroom  she  was  asked 
what  she  thought  of  "Mr.  Stretton,"  she  hardly  knew 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  27 

what  to  say,  though  as  a  rule  her  frankness  of  speech 
and  quickness  of  decision  never  left  her  with  any  hesi- 
tation in  answering  a  question. 

"I  should  say  he  thinks  a  good  deal,  and  observes 
everything,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cecily  in  an  anxious  voice.  "I 
do  trust  his  quick  eyes  will  not  notice  the  hole  in  the 
hall  carpet  by  the  fireplace." 

Miss  Cecily  was  still  excited  by  the  visit  of  her 
nephew,  and  after  some  trivial  talk  about  his  good 
looks,  her  disappointment  that  the  trap  was  not  waiting 
at  the  station  for  him,  and  other  such  things,  she  took 
Alicia's  hand  and  cried  a  little. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  felt  myself  blushing  when 
he  kissed  me.  It  was  so  ridiculous,  and  foolish!  But 
sometimes  I  forget  how  old  I  am.  Our  life  has  been 
so  quiet  here,  and  I  often  do  not  realise  my  sixty  years. 
At  times  I  even  find  myself  dreaming  the  same  old 
dreams  of  my  girlhood — of  the  lover  who  would  one 
day  take  me  in  his  arms  and  kiss  me,  as  I  have  never 
been  kissed.  And  at  night  I  wake  up  now  and  then 
with  a  vision  of  a  little  baby  at  my  breast.  .  .  .  Oh, 
and  then  I  weep  for  hours  when  I  know  that  I  shall 
never  have  the  child  I  used  to  pray  for." 

Alicia  returned  the  pressure  of  Miss  Cecily's  hand, 
and  her  own  eyes  were  filled  with  moisture. 

"This  is  an  old  woman's  confession,  my  dear.  I  say 
it  to  you,  though  I  could  never  say  it  even  to  poor 
Agnes." 

Miss   Cecily  could   not   have  told   why   she   was 


28  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

prompted  to  speak  of  this  sacred  little  secret  of  hers  to 
Alicia.  But  between  the  old  maid  and  the  young  there 
was  the  communion  of  a  great  hunger  for  motherhood 
and  for  man's  love. 

Alicia  Frensham  did  not  stay  to  lunch,  though  she 
was  pressed  to  do  so  by  the  two  ladies.  As  she  walked 
home  to  the  school-house  on  the  edge  of  the  Green, 
her  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  remembrance  of  her 
conversation  with  Stretton  Wingfield.  One  of  his 
sentences  had  strangely  moved  her,  and  it  came  back 
to  her  again  and  again,  though  in  a  timid  way  she 
shrank  from  its  dangerous  sweetness. 

"A  man  of  unsettled  principles  needs  the  influence 
of  a  sincere  woman  to  teach  him  the  way  of  his  true 
nature."  It  had  sounded  almost  like  an  appeal. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  two  ladies  at  Stretton  Hall  were  very  happy  in 
the  possession  of  their  nephew.  There  was  a  sort  of 
rivalry  between  them  for  the  enjoyment  of  his  company, 
and  if  Miss  Agnes  were  busy  in  the  bedroom  Miss 
Cecily  would,  for  example,  slip  into  the  library  with 
a  glass  of  cherry  brandy  and  some  biscuits  for  Stret- 
ton's  lunch;  or  if  Miss  Cecily  had  to  go  into  the  village, 
Miss  Agnes  would  seize  the  opportunity  to  take  Stretton 
into  the  garden  to  see  the  herbary,  which  was  her 
especial  pride.  They  lavished  a  hundred  such  little 
attentions  upon  him  during  the  day,  hardly  leaving 
him  alone  for  ten  minutes  at  a  time.  Miss  Agnes  was 
anxious  about  his  health,  for  he  had  sneezed  three 
times  after  his  morning  bath,  and  she  insisted  that  he 
should  put  on  an  undervest  which  she  had  knitted  for 
the  winter  club.  Miss  Cecily,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
more  anxious  about  his  state  of  mind.  She  had  a 
curious  dread  lest  he  should  be  bored,  or  ennuyi  as 
she  called  it  with  a  pretty  French  accent,  and  she 
endeavoured  to  interest  him  by  sending  for  the  newest 
novels  from  the  village  library — none  of  which  he 
would  have  read  if  alone  on  a  desert  island — and  by 
asking  him  all  sorts  of  quaint  little  questions  about  his 
opinions  on  foreign  politics,  on  the  education  contro- 

29 


30  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

versy,  the  condition  of  British  trade,  and  other  subjects 
which  she  believed  he  was  in  the  habit  of  discussing. 
Stretton,  who  had  a  sense  of  humour,  was  immensely 
entertained  by  these  efforts  to  keep  him  interested, 
but  firmly  refused  to  talk  upon  any  abstract  problems 
with  his  aunt.  But  he  accepted  the  affectionate  little 
demonstrations  of  both  the  ladies  with  a  good-nature 
that  was  very  gratifying  to  himself  and  put  a  severe 
check  upon  a  tongue  accustomed  to  flippancy.  He 
did  not  resist  even  when  at  every  opportunity  one  of 
his  aunts  would  take  hold  of  his  hand  and  lead  him 
about  the  house  and  garden,  just  as  they  used  to  do 
when  he  was  a  small  boy  in  petticoats.  It  entertained 
him  for  at  least  three  days  to  hear  the  little  confessions 
which  each  of  them  made  in  turn  in  private.  Miss 
Agnes,  for  instance,  confided  to  him  that  she  had  lately 
become  very  High  Church  in  her  views  owing  to  the 
influence  of  the  new  Vicar,  Mr.  Cartwright,  who  had 
strong  opinions  about  Anglican  Orders,  and  the  Apos- 
tolic Succession. 

"I  trust  you  will  not  think  I  am  departing  from  the 
traditions  of  our  family,  my  dear  Stretton,"  she  said 
timidly,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "Since  the 
Reformation,  of  course,  we  have  been  staunch  Prot- 
estants, but  on  the  other  hand,  as  Mr.  Cartwright 
observes,  we  were  all  Catholics  once." 

"Cartwright  is  evidently  a  very  intelligent  man," 
said  Stretton,  with  a  quizzical  smile  that  was  lost  on 
Miss  Agnes.  "Pray  believe,  my  dear  Aunt,  that  I  have 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  31 

no  personal  objections  to  the  High  Church  theory. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  beauty  in  it." 

"I  have  asked  Mr.  Cartwright  to  dinner  to-morrow," 
said  Miss  Agnes.  "Perhaps,  after  your  wine,  you  will 
discuss  the  subject  with  him.  He  is  so  eloquent  and 
learned  that  I  am  sure  you  will  find  some  compensation 
for  our  poor  conversational  powers." 

One  of  Miss  Cecily's  confidences  was  upon  the  same 
topic.  She  confessed  to  Stretton  that  she  had  almost 
quarrelled  with  "poor  Agnes"  over  her  new  ritualistic 
practices. 

"I  cannot  forget  that  our  ancestor,  Cuthbert  Wing- 
field,  was  beheaded  on  Tower  Hill  by  Bloody  Mary." 

"But  that  was  not  for  his  faith,"  said  Stretton.  "The 
fellow  was  a  political  firebrand.  Personally,  however, 
Aunt  Cecily,  I  admire  your  Puritanism  as  much  as  I 
sympathise  with  Aunt  Agnes's  leanings  towards  mys- 
ticism and  symbolism.  I  have  a  touch  of  both  things 
in  my  own  character." 

"You  are  so  broad-minded,  dear  Stretton — we 
women  are  always  partisans." 

"That  is  the  strength  of  womanhood,"  said  Stretton, 
remembering  a  sentence  in  his  first  novel.  "Women's 
convictions  come  from  their  hearts  and  have  the  blind 
inconsistency  of  a  natural  law.  Men  who  are  ruled 
more  by  intellect  attain  the  impartiality  and  suffer 
from  the  weakness  which  always  belongs  to  unpreju- 
diced minds." 

"You  are  so  wise,  dear  Stretton,"  said  Miss  Cecily, 


32  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

who  had  hardly  grasped  the  meaning  of  that  ponderous 
sentence. 

Stretton  laughed. 

"There  is  no  wisdom  in  that,  dear  Aunt,  it's  only 
an  old  platitude  in  new  words — a  gift  which  makes 
the  success  of  a  novelist." 

At  dinner  that  evening  the  two  ladies  left  Stretton 
alone  with  his  wine — the  port  which  Blinkworthy  had 
eventually  brought  up  as  a  sacred  thing  from  the  cellar, 
having  found  the  key  at  the  bottom  of  the  hall  clock, 
which  he  had  wound  up  the  previous  day.  It  was  an 
excellent  wine,  and  Stretton  suddenly  found  that  he 
was  drinking  more  of  it  than  was  quite  discreet  with 
his  position  as  a  guest  at  his  aunts'  house.  But  it 
warmed  his  imagination,  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
as  he  smoked  a  cigar  he  looked  round  the  old  dining- 
room  with  a  feeling  of  peace  and  pleasant  sentiment. 
It  was  strange  and  yet  home-like  to  be  here  again, 
surrounded  by  portraits  of  men  and  women  from  whose 
bodies  he  had  got  something  of  his  own  blood,  to  be 
under  the  same  oak  beams,  to  sit  at  the  same  oak  table, 
whose  dark  polished  wood  had  reflected  their  figures 
when  they  had  been  in  the  flesh  centuries  ago.  They 
had  been  a  brave  old  English  family,  never  rising  very 
high  in  wealth  or  rank,  never  the  favourites  or  the  foes 
of  kings,  and  therefore  never  falling  low  after  a  rebel- 
lion, or  at  the  end  of  a  dynasty,  but  limiting  their 
ambitions  to  retaining  the  plot  of  land  which  had  been 
given  to  them  in  Norman  days,  and  the  safeguarding 
of  the  family  fortunes  in  a  quiet  way.  Yet  the  younger 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  33 

sons  had  taken  their  parts  pluckily  enough  in  national 
strife  and  achievements,  and  some  of  them  were  remem- 
bered in  history. 

Stretton  stared  across  the  table  at  the  portrait  of 
Rupert  Wingfield,  his  aunt's  Cavalier  ancestor,  whom 
Alicia  Frensham  had  pointed  out  as  so  like  himself. 
As  a  boy  he  had  read  the  old  diary  in  manuscript  which 
Rupert  had  kept  for  two  years.  The  aunts  had  been 
horrified  when  they  found  Stretton  deep  in  it  one  day, 
for  intermingled  with  a  romantic  narrative  in  which 
the  young  Royalist  had  recorded  his  early  exploits  in 
the  Civil  Wars,  with  an  evident  suggestion  of  his  own 
heroism,  there  were  passages  of  extraordinary  coarse- 
ness and  sensuality.  Sipping  his  wine,  Stretton  pon- 
dered over  the  memory  of  these  family  papers,  and 
it  struck  him  with  a  sudden  sense  of  uneasiness  that 
his  own  character  had  certain  points  of  resem- 
blance with  the  Rupert  Wingfield  whose  face  was  also 
strangely  like  his  own.  The  man  had  come  to  a  bad 
end,  for  after  fighting  on  the  King's  side  during  the 
rebellion  he  had  betrayed  a  small  company  of  Royalist 
horse  into  the  hands  of  the  Parliamentarians,  thereby 
saving  the  family  estate  from  confiscation.  Then  two 
years  later  he  had  blown  out  his  brains,  either  remorse- 
ful at  his  treachery  or  in  the  delirium  of  drink  to  which 
he  had  abandoned  himself.  It  was  the  blackest  tale 
in  the  history  of  Stretton  Hall,  never  alluded  to  by  the 
aunts,  with  whom  the  pride  of  race  was  a  religion. 

Stretton  pushed  the  wine  away  from  him  with  a 
queer  look  in  his  eyes.  He  knew  that  there  was  a 


34  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

strain  of  weakness  in  his  blood  that  tempted  him  some- 
times into  a  self-indulgence — shocking  to  his  egotism — 
which  in  tropical  Africa,  and  once  in  an  island  of  the 
Pacific,  had  betrayed  him  to  deeds  he  now  thrust  back 
into  the  dark  cupboards  of  his  memory.  He  had  ambi- 
tions, and  he  knew  he  had  the  gifts  by  which  ambition 
might  be  fulfilled — imagination,  audacity,  oratory.  He 
had  come  down  to  Stretton  Hall  as  a  quiet  retreat  in 
which  he  might  build  up  the  plan  of  his  future  life, 
and  think  out  the  moves  in  a  political  game,  requiring 
all  his  imagination  and  all  his  audacity,  and  now  for 
some  reason  the  old  Hall  had  excited  his  brain  with 
ugly  thoughts,  and  the  picture  of  Rupert  Wingfield, 
smiling  down  on  him  with  a  handsome  sensual  face, 
had  stirred  him  strangely. 

He  took  hold  of  a  heavy  brass  candlestick  from  the 
polished  table  where  its  candle  made  a  pool  of  light, 
and  held  it  up  with  an  unsteady  hand  to  a  mirror, 
peering  at  the  reflection  of  his  white  face,  which  was 
like  the  ghost  of  the  Royalist  in  Lely's  portrait  on 
the  wall. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said  aloud.  "Shall  I  fail  because 
of  my  blood?" 

He  stood  looking  at  himself  for  a  minute  or  two  and 
then  returned  to  the  table  with  a  more  composed 
expression. 

"I  want  a  woman  to  keep  me  straight,"  he  muttered 
as  he  put  back  the  candle,  and  after  drinking  off 
another  glass  of  wine  left  the  dining-room  to  rejoin 
his  aunts. 


CHAPTER  IV 

STRETTON  found  that  Alicia  Frensham  was  with  the 
two  ladies,  Miss  Cecily  having  sent  a  note  round  to  the 
school-house  asking  her  to  spend  the  evening  with 
them.  She  was  dressed  in  white,  and  as  Stretton  went 
into  the  room  she  was  bending  over  some  music  on 
the  piano  with  the  soft  light  of  the  candles  on  her  face. 
Stretton,  with  his  imagination  slightly  excited  by  wine, 
was  startled  by  the  Burne- Jones-like  beauty  of  her  tall, 
thin  figure  and  serious  face.  He  went  forward  eagerly 
and  took  her  hand,  thanking  her  for  coming  as  if  he 
had  known  her  longer  than  one  yesterday  ago.  Had 
she  not  been  rather  unaccustomed  to  men  of  his  class 
she  might  have  been  embarrassed  by  this  warm  greet- 
ing, but  she  accepted  it  as  friendship  shown  to  her  for 
his  aunts'  sake  and  smiled  back  her  thanks  with  frank 
pleasure. 

In  a  little  while  the  two  elderly  ladies  were  singing 
a  duet  to  the  sweet  and  fragrant  melody  of  Home's, 
with  the  words  of  "I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild 
thyme  blows."  At  Stretton's  request  Miss  Agnes 
played  the  accompaniment  on  the  rosewood  spinet 
instead  of  on  the  modern  grand  piano,  and  he  smiled 
to  Alicia  as  the  two  silvery  voices  joined  in  the  simple 
harmony  above  the  tinkling  notes  of  an  instrument 

35 


36  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

which  had  been  played  upon  by  many  Wingfield  women 
whose  fingers  had  long  lain  still. 

"How  quaint  it  sounds!"  said  Stretton  in  a  quiet 
voice  to  Alicia,  who  was  sitting  near  him  on  a  bear- 
skin rug  with  her  head  against  the  body  of  the  piano. 
(Stretton  learnt  afterwards  that  it  was  a  characteristic 
of  hers  to  sit  on  low  stools  or  on  the  floor.)  "It  makes 
me  think  of  old  ghosts." 

Alicia  pointed  to  a  little  oval  picture  of  a  lady  in 
Georgian  dress  sitting  at  the  same  spinet  which  the 
two  ladies  were  now  playing. 

"That  is  one  of  the  ghosts,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"She  always  reminds  me  of  Miss  Cecily  with  her  blue 
eyes  and  fair  complexion.  And  the  poise  of  the  head 
is  the  very  same — like  a  flower  on  its  stalk." 

The  song  ended  with  a  ripple  of  laughter  from  both 
the  ladies — as  they  had  laughed  with  shy  pleasure  at 
their  own  success  when  they  had  first  sung  it  forty-five 
years  ago. 

These  few  songs  included  in  their  "repertoire,"  as 
they  called  it — a  selection  of  old  melodies  which  they 
had  "practised"  every  Wednesday  evening  for  many 
years — were  very  dear  to  them,  and  Miss  Cecily  used 
to  wonder  wistfully  whether  they  would  sometimes  be 
permitted  to  sing  "I  know  a  bank"  in  heaven. 

"Do  you  sing?"  said  Stretton  to  Alicia. 

"Only  in  silence,"  said  the  schoolmistress. 

"How's  that?" 

"I  have  no  voice,  but  I  would  give  almost  anything 
to  sing  well.  It  is  a  passionate  regret  of  mine.  Some- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  37 

times  I  dream  of  singing  gloriously  before  a  great 
audience,  enchanting  both  myself  and  the  people  with 
wonderful  sound.  Even  to  dream  of  it  is  rather 
comforting." 

Stretton  responded  to  her  quiet  laughter. 

"I  once  enchanted  a  whole  tribe  of  people,"  he  said. 
"It  was  when  I  was  at  M'bopo  on  the  Zambesi,  where 
I  was  the  only  white  man  among  ten  thousand  blacks. 
I  was  on  a  mission  to  the  chief  to  get  a  trade  concession 
from  the  old  rascal,  who  was  more  inclined  to  give 
me  over  to  his  medicine  man  for  a  private  Ju-ju.  The 
night  I  arrived  at  the  village  they  had  a  sing-song  after 
the  palaver,  and  my  head  fairly  ached  with  the  ugly 
discords.  I  had  a  touch  of  fever  on  me  and  was  a  bit 
mad,  I  think.  Anyhow,  the  idea  suddenly  came  to  me 
to  teach  the  black  beggars  what  real  music  was  like, 
and  then  hardly  knowing  what  I  was  about  I  stood  up 
and  began  to  sing  'La  Marseillaise'  for  all  I  was  worth. 
I  have  a  pretty  powerful  baritone,  and  in  the  clear, 
hot  African  night  it  must  have  carried  for  a  mile  or 
two.  It  was  an  extraordinary  scene.  I  was  standing 
next  to  the  chief  and  his  best  wives,  and  before  me 
were  crowds  of  niggers  all  squatted  on  their  hams  star- 
ing at  me  with  their  great  glistening  eyes.  The  moon 
was  up  and  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred.  Beyond,  a 
forest  of  rubber  trees  made  a  great  black  belt  around 
us.  The  intense  silence  was  almost  appalling,  and  the 
damp  heat  seemed  to  clutch  at  one's  throat.  But  I 
don't  think  I  ever  sang  so  well.  I  was  excited,  and 
cold  thrills  ran  up  and  down  my  spine,  but  I  gave  out 


38  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

the  'Marseillaise'  with  as  much  passion,  I  should  say, 
as  when  Rouget  de  Lisle  first  sang  it  in  '93.  The  effect 
was  prodigious.  At  first  the  black  fellows  did  not 
move,  and  I  could  hear  the  breath  of  a  thousand  throats 
panting  hard  like  the  sound  of  sleeping  animals.  Then 
when  I  burst  out  with  'Aux  armes,  citoyens!'  they 
stirred  uneasily  with  a  kind  of  fear,  and  at  last  when 
I  finished  the  song,  feeling  faint  with  the  effort  and 
excitement,  they  sprang  up  like  demons  and  waved 
their  spears  and  shouted  themselves  hoarse.  I  thought 
at  first  they  were  going  to  murder  me,  but  it  was  only 
their  way  of  showing  enthusiasm.  I  had  to  sing  again 
and  again,  and  I  gave  them  all  sorts  of  old  ditties,  such 
as  'John  Peel'  and  'Annie  Laurie.'  It  was  not  good 
for  a  convalescent  from  blackwater  fever,  and  when  I 
had  finished  the  last  verse  of  'There  is  a  tavern  in  the 
town'  I  fell  into  a  dead  swoon.  I  was  ill  for  a  week 
after,  but  the  chief's  wives  nursed  me  as  if  I  had  been 
the  great  Bongo  himself,  and  afterwards — I  got  the 
trade  concession  all  right  from  the  old  man — I  found 
out  I  was  called  'The  Man-with-the-God-in-his-Throat,' 
and  I  believe  the  memory  of  the  'Marseillaise'  is  still 
a  miracle  in  the  minds  of  my  M'bopo  friends." 

"My  dear  boy!"  said  Miss  Agnes  anxiously.  "What 
perils  you  have  been  through,  and  I  don't  suppose  you 
even  thought  of  changing  your  clothes  when  they  got 
damp!" 

Alicia  had  listened  to  the  tale  with  sparkling  eyes, 
and  it  was  to  her  that  Stretton  had  told  it. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  39 

"How  splendid!"  she  said.  "Oh,  how  splendid!  I 
would  die  for  the  sake  of  an  experience  like  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Stretton,  laugh- 
ing. "Death  is  a  fool's  game  in  an  African  forest.  I 
came  pretty  near  death  several  times,  but  I  was  jolly 
glad  to  give  it  the  go-by,  I  can  tell  you.  It  loses  its 
glamour  when  you  see  men  dropping  like  flies  round 
you — from  every  hideous  disease  you  can  think  of. 
Drink,  of  course,  is  the  very  devil  in  Africa.  The 
temptation  in  a  hot  stifling  climate  is  terrific,  and  a 
certain  amount  of  alcohol  is  absolutely  necessary,  but 
it  is  certain  hell  to  go  beyond  the  limit.  Most  white 
men  go  beyond  the  limit." 

The  two  ladies  shuddered.  They  were  a  little 
shocked  by  their  nephew's  forcible  language. 

"My  dear  Stretton,"  said  Miss  Cecily  timidly,  "need 
you  use  quite  such  strong  words?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Aunt,"  said  Stretton,  glancing 
at  Alicia,  and  glad  to  see  that  she  did  not  appear  to 
have  been  scandalised  by  his  language.  "The  mem- 
ories of  the  old  wandering  life  were  too  strong  for 
drawing-room  descriptions." 

"Tell  us  some  more,"  said  Alicia;  "I  cannot  hear 
enough  about  life  in  natural  and  uncivilised  places.  It 
is  so  good  to  know  more  than  the  narrow  little  world 
of  society  in  an  English  village." 

Stretton  was  flattered  by  her  attentive  interest,  and 
launched  into  other  tales  of  his  African  experiences. 
He  had  the  gift  of  story-telling,  and  with  his  imagina- 
tion excited  by  the  audience  of  a  woman  whose  per- 


40  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

sonality  moved  him  strangely,  and  by  the  memories  of 
old  perils  and  adventures,  his  words  were  vivid  and 
picturesque,  and  with  real  eloquence  and  impressive 
word-painting  he  described  his  nights  in  African  jun- 
gles, when  he  had  lain  tormented  by  strange  insects, 
maddened  by  oppressive  heat,  panic-stricken  by  the 
sounds  of  wild  beasts,  haunted  by  the  dark  fears  of 
nature  and  the  supernatural,  which  attack  even  the 
most  civilised  of  men  against  the  arguments  of  time, 
reason,  and  common  sense,  when  they  have  lived  with 
loneliness  in  great  tropical  swamps  and  forests,  and 
have  heard  tales  of  awful  superstition  from  natives, 
who  with  all  their  courage  and  physical  strength  cower 
at  night  from  ideas  of  the  terrors  that  lie  lurking  in 
the  darkness. 

To  Alicia  Frensham  it  seemed  that  the  old  homely 
room  in  which  she  now  sat  had  dissolved  about  her, 
and  that  she  was  with  Stretton  Wingfield  in  darkest 
Africa.  As  his  glowing  words  flowed  on  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  really  stifling  from  the  moist  heat  of 
the  tropics,  that  she  also  was  afraid  of  horrid  spectres 
conjured  up  in  black  men's  brains,  that  the  odours  of 
exotic  flowers  were  intoxicating  her  senses,  that  the 
mysterious  sounds  of  an  African  forest  were  racking 
her  nerves,  so  that  she  was  ready  to  start  with  fright 
at  the  crackling  of  a  twig. 

Yet  though  her  intellect  was  under  the  spell  of  his 
words  in  a  subconscious  way,  she  realised  the  egotism 
of  the  man,  and  something  that  was  weaker  than 
egotism — mere  vanity.  For  he  was  always  the  hero 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  41 

of  his  tales:  it  was  his  strength,  his  endurance,  his 
sufferings,  his  audacity,  which  he  recounted  with  a 
striking  sense  of  drama.  But  though  she  was  not 
altogether  unconscious  of  this,  her  own  sincerity  and 
natural  truthfulness  helping  her  to  gauge  character 
very  rapidly  and  acutely,  she  was  not  at  all  repelled, 
but  rather  fascinated,  by  this  strong  personal  touch  in 
Stretton's  narrative.  It  was  this  which  most  interested 
her.  She  had  read  many  travel  books,  and  knew  as 
much  as  she  wanted  to  about  the  climate,  the  fauna 
and  flora,  and  other  educational  facts  connected  with 
Central  Africa;  but  the  effect  of  those  things  upon  the 
imagination  and  character  of  the  man  before  her,  his 
psychological  experiences,  his  mastery  over  black 
minds,  his  moral  attitude  towards  the  problems  of  life 
outside  the  boundaries  of  modern  civilisation,  were 
enthralling  to  her.  She  watched  him  curiously  as  he 
was  speaking,  noticing  the  gestures  of  his  thin  brown 
hands,  the  glint  of  his  grey  eyes,  the  determined  ex- 
pression of  the  mouth,  with  its  Wingfield  lower  lip,  a 
little  weak  and  sensuous.  Never  before  in  her  life 
had  she  been  so  attracted  to  a  man,  so  full  of  admira- 
tion for  a  man's  vivid  intellect  and  physical  charm. 

He  was  now  telling  a  story  of  a  chance  encounter 
with  a  lioness  in  a  jungle  of  Uganda. 

"I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life  as  when  I 
suddenly  found  myself  looking  straight  into  the  eyes 
of  the  great  cat.  I  was  so  surprised  that  for  the 
moment  I  felt  no  fear,  and  I  burst  into  a  laugh  just 
as  a  well-dressed  man  might  laugh  if  he  came  full  tilt 


42  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

upon  a  chimney-sweep  round  a  sharp  corner.  I  almost 
believe  the  brute  had  a  sense  of  humour.  At  any 
rate  she  drew  back  her  upper  lip  and  showed  her  teeth 
in  a  ghastly  grin.  That  put  a  sudden  check  upon  my 
mirth,  and  I  felt,  I  think  I  was,  absolutely  paralysed. 
Then  I  did  a  fatal  thing,  a  shameful  thing  for  a  man 
who  called  himself  a  sportsman.  I  turned  and  bolted! 
You  see  I  had  no  weapon  with  me,  and  it  is  not  a  nice 
thing  to  wait  until  a  lioness  condescends  to  make  a 
dinner  of  one.  I  could  not  have  gone  more  than  a 
yard.  I  suddenly  felt  as  though  a  cannon  ball  had 
hit  me  in  the  back,  and  then  I  found  myself  face  down- 
wards on  the  ground  with  five  great  claws  dug  into 
the  flesh  of  my  right  arm  like  red-hot  irons." 

Miss  Agnes  interrupted  the  tale  by  a  little  cry. 

"Oh,  Stretton!  How  terrible!  Why  did  you  go  to 
such  dangerous  places?" 

Miss  Cecily  had  grasped  Alicia's  arm,  clutching  it 
in  her  excitement  with  almost  painful  pressure. 

Stretton  laughed  lightly,  pleased  with  the  impression 
he  had  produced. 

"I  won't  harrow  your  feelings  too  much,"  he  said. 
"I  was  rescued  by  the  appalling  yells  of  my  black 
boy,  which  so  startled  the  lioness  that  she  suddenly 
leapt  off  my  back  and  bounded  away  into  the  under- 
growth." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  said  Miss  Agnes  fer- 
vently, as  if  she  had  not  felt  quite  sure  whether  Stretton 
had  not  been  actually  eaten  up  on  that  occasion. 

Her  nephew  took  off  his  jacket  and  turned  up  the 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  43 

sleeve  of  his  shirt,  showing  his  white  arm  to  the  shoul- 
der blade. 

"Look!"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  marks  of  the  great 
claws,  which  were  clearly  visible.  Poor  Miss  Cecily 
was  rather  shocked  at  this  sudden  exposure  of  a  man's 
form,  and  blushed  vividly,  though  she  peered  at  his 
arm  with  an  heroic  effort  to  hide  her  embarrassment. 
But  Alicia,  with  grave  eyes,  put  her  fingers  on  the 
man's  firm  muscles,  touching  the  scars. 

"How  terribly  it  must  have  hurt  you!" 

"Not  so  much  as  you  might  think  at  the  time,"  said 
Stretton,  "but  afterwards  I  was  delirious  with  the  pain 
and  had  my  seventh  attack  of  fever.  It  was  after 
that  I  came  home  to  recruit,  and  to  clothe  myself  again 
in  civilisation." 

"And  I  sincerely  trust,  dear  Stretton,"  said  Miss 
Agnes  almost  severely,  "that  you  will  never  go  back 
to  such  a  horrible  country." 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  shall,  Aunt.  One  can  have 
enough  of  Africa  and  fever.  I  suppose  I  shall  settle 
down  and  go  in  for  the  game  of  politics  like  my  worthy 
uncle.  But  after  all  I  should  think  a  lion  is  a  harmless 
brute  compared  to  an  angry  M.P." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  you  would  do  well  to  go  into  the 
House,"  said  Miss  Agnes  eagerly.  "With  your  gift  of 
language  you  would  be  a  brilliant  success.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Alicia?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Alicia  earnestly. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  should  do  pretty  well  in  the 
Talking  Shop,"  said  Stretton. 


44  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

So  the  evening  came  to  an  end,  an  evening  which 
Alicia  remembered  in  after  years  as  the  beginning  of 
a  new  life.  She  rose  to  go,  and  Stretton  said  he  would 
take  her  home. 

"That  is  good  of  you.  But  I  am  not  afraid  of 
ghosts,  and  there  are  no  evil  beings  of  a  human  kind 
in  Long  Stretton." 

"I  should  like  a  stroll  before  bed,"  said  Stretton. 
"It  is  one  of  my  inflexible  principles." 

On  the  garden  steps  Alicia  stayed  for  a  moment 
with  the  two  ladies. 

"I  have  a  piece  of  news,"  she  said.  "David  Heath 
comes  down  from  Oxford  to-morrow — with  all  his 
honours  on  his  brow." 

The  ladies  ejaculated  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"How  pleased  you  will  be  to  see  him  again!"  said 
Miss  Agnes.  "He  owes  such  a  lot  to  you." 

"I  shall  always  think  of  him  as  one  of  my  boys," 
said  Alicia,  laughing,  "though  he  is  such  a  giant  now!" 

She  sped  down  the  steps  to  Stretton,  and  they  went 
down  the  dark  drive,  looking  back  for  a  moment  at 
the  two  figures  in  the  open  doorway,  through  which 
streamed  a  flood  of  yellow  light. 

"How  well  the  old  place  looks  at  night,"  said 
Stretton,  "especially  when  the  moon  sits  on  its  fantastic 
old  chimney  pots,  and  when  there  is  a  light  behind  the 
oriel  window." 

"I  love  it,"  said  Alicia.  "It  brings  out  all  my  sense 
of  romance." 

They  walked  down  the  village  street,  which  was 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  45 

solitary  and  silent.  The  little  stone  houses  gleamed 
white  in  the  moonlight,  and  their  tiny  window-panes 
glinted  with  gold  on  one  side  of  the  street,  while  on 
the  other  there  were  deep  shadows  under  the  gables. 

"The  place  can  hardly  have  changed  since  Rupert's 
cavaliers  clattered  down  here  at  midnight  two  and  a 
half  centuries  ago,"  said  Stretton. 

"It  is  wonderful  to  think,  too,"  said  Alicia,  "that 
these  are  the  very  houses  in  which  the  plague  broke 
out,  that  in  these  very  rooms  whole  families  died  within 
a  week  or  two." 

"It's  a  gruesome  memory,"  said  Stretton.  "I 
wouldn't  live  in  one  of  those  cottages  for  anything  in 
the  world.  I  am  sure  I  should  die  of  the  plague  through 
sheer  force  of  imagination." 

They  walked  silently  for  a  minute  or  two,  then 
Stretton  said — 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  aunts?" 

Alicia  was  amused  by  the  abrupt  question. 

"I  think  more  than  I  can  say.  They  are  the  very 
sweetest  women  in  the  world." 

"I  can't  imagine  how  such  an  old-fashioned  couple 
could  exist  in  this  modern  world.  They  are  absolutely 
early  Victorian,  and  they  seem  exactly  alike  to  me, 
except  that  Aunt  Agnes  is  'High  Church'  and  Aunt 
Cecily  'Low  Church.'  Even  that  is  only  a  sort  of 
make-believe.  They  both  look  out  upon  the  world 
with  the  same  eyes." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Alicia  quickly,  "there  are  great  dif- 
ferences of  character  between  them.  Miss  Agnes  has 


46  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

fixed  principles  of  the  most  unalterable  character,  and 
believes  in  all  the  old  English  traditions  of  religious 
and  moral  and  social  conduct.  Miss  Cecily,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  more  imaginative  and  humanitarian. 
She  has  a  secret  sympathy  with  heretics  and  sinners 
and  revolutionaries,  though  she  is  not  self-conscious 
of  this." 

She  was  thinking  of  how  a  girl  in  the  village  had 
"gone  wrong,"  as  it  is  called,  and  how,  Miss  Agnes 
having  excommunicated  her  from  all  social  intercourse, 
Miss  Cecily  had  often  visited  the  poor  girl  and  supplied 
her  with  clothing  for  the  baby,  and  all  sorts  of  little 
luxuries.  It  had  been  a  great  secret  between  Alicia  and 
her,  and  Miss  Agnes  had  no  inkling  of  a  charity  which 
would  have  seemed  to  her  a  scandal.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  told  Stretton  the  story  quite  frankly, 
but  under  a  pledge  of  secrecy. 

Stretton  whistled. 

"Well,  that  is  a  revelation,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"Bravo,  Aunt  Cecily!" 

They  had  now  arrived  at  the  school-house,  an  ivy- 
covered  cottage  at  the  end  of  the  village.  Alicia  stood 
inside  the  gate  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Stretton. 

"I  enjoyed  your  conversation  this  evening,"  she  said 
quietly. 

Stretton  took  the  girl's  hand  and  held  it  in  his  for 
quite  a  few  moments. 

When  he  spoke  there  was  a  curious  little  thrill  in 
his  voice,  but  his  words  were  an  apology. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  47 

"It  was  I  who  did  all  the  talking.  It  is  so  rare  to 
find  a  willing  victim  to  one's  egotism." 

Then  he  turned  abruptly  as  if  to  go,  but  stopped  to 
ask  a  sudden  question. 

"By  the  by,  who  was  that  man  you  mentioned  to 
my  aunts — David  Heath?" 

Alicia  hesitated  for  just  a  second. 

"I  used  to  teach  him  Latin  and  things  before  he 
went  to  Oxford.  He  has  pulled  off  an  excellent  degree, 
though  his  father  is  the  blacksmith  here." 

"Is  he  a  great  friend  of  yours?"  said  Stretton. 

"Yes,  the  best  I  have." 

Stretton  laughed. 

"Do  not  let  him  have  the  monopoly  of  friendship 
. .  .  well,  good-night  1" 

He  strode  back  again  up  the  high  street,  his  footsteps 
resounding  with  a  quick,  measured  tread  upon  the 
pavement.  Alicia  watched  him  until  he  disappeared 
into  the  dark  shadows,  and  as  she  turned  and  unlocked 
her  little  door  a  sudden  flush  of  colour  mounted  to  her 
face. 


CHAPTER  V 

STRETTON  WINGFIELD  was  passing  next  day  down 
a  narrow  wynd  called  Plague  Lane,  leading  to  the 
open  fields,  where  he  intended  to  go  for  a  slogging 
walk,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  to  the  rhythmic 
beating  of  an  anvil.  It  came  from  a  wooden  shed  stand- 
ing back  between  two  old  cottages,  and  the  litter  of 
cart-wheels,  iron  hoops,  agricultural  machinery,  and 
scrap  iron  in  the  front  yard  showed  that  here  was  the 
village  blacksmith.  Stretton  stopped  and  wondered 
why  he  was  interested  curiously  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
the  blacksmith  shop.  Then  he  remembered  that 
Alicia's  "best  friend,"  David  Heath,  the  man  who  had 
just  come  down  from  Oxford,  was  the  blacksmith's 
son.  Stretton  hesitated,  then  picking  his  way  over  the 
rubbish  heaps,  he  stood  at  the  open  doorway  of  the 
shed  looking  into  its  half-darkness.  The  forge  was  at 
the  far  end,  and  a  glow  of  red  light,  fanned  into  sud- 
den spurts  of  flame  as  the  bellows  puffed  in  and  out, 
revealed  the  figure  of  a  man  who  was  hammering  at 
the  anvil.  He  was  tall  and  quite  young,  with  a  power- 
ful, clear-cut,  clean-shaven  face,  and  a  square,  heavy 
jaw.  A  mass  of  short,  dark,  and  crisp  curls  covered 
a  head  of  unusual  size,  and  were  thrust  back  from  a 
broad  forehead.  The  man  had  taken  off  his  coat  and 

48 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  49 

waistcoat,  and  had  slipped  the  braces  from  his  shoul- 
ders, rolling  up  the  sleeves  of  his  flannel  shirt  so  as 
to  show  his  giant  biceps,  which  rose  and  fell  as  he 
swung  the  hammer  above  his  head  and  brought  it  down 
with  swift  and  steady  beats  upon  a  glowing  piece  of 
iron  which  hissed  out  a  legion  of  dancing  sparks.  With 
the  darkness  behind  him  and  around  him,  and  a  scarlet 
glare  upon  his  face  and  leather  apron,  he  seemed  a. 
giant  in  stature — a  youthful  Thor  forging  his  thunder- 
bolt. Stretton  gazed  at  him  with  a  sense  of  admiration 
which  he  could  never  withhold  from  the  sight  of  muscu- 
lar strength,  listening  with  fascination  to  the  clanging 
melody  of  hammer  and  anvil,  and  watching  the  flight 
of  the  savage  fire  and  rising  sparks  which  had  always 
bewitched  him  as  a  boy.  He  could  now  see  who  was 
blowing  the  bellows — a  square-built  man  with  grizzled 
hair  and  a  rugged  face  that  was  a  rough-hewn  counter- 
part of  the  younger  man's.  Stretton  remembered 
having  seen  him  before — ten  years  ago.  It  was  Jona- 
than Heath,  who  used  to  shoe  the  grey  horse  which 
Stretton  had  ridden  in  his  boyhood  when  staying  with 
the  aunts.  Then  Stretton,  letting  his  eyes  wander  from 
the  two  men,  saw  that  there  was  another  figure  in  the 
shed.  It  was  Alicia,  sitting  on  the  corner  of  a  car- 
penter's bench  where  the  shadows  were  darkest.  She 
was  in  her  black  school  dress,  but  now  and  then  the 
glare  from  the  fire  caught  her  profile  and  the  loop  of 
her  hair  with  a  ruddy  light.  As  Stretton  became  aware 
of  her  he  had  a  twinge  of  stupid  jealousy  at  this  David 
Heath,  Oxford  man  and  blacksmith,  whom  she  had 


50  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

called  her  "best  friend."  That  scallawag  in  the  flannel 
shirt  and  with  the  wild,  unkempt  hair!  A  fellow  who 
had  been  born  in  a  pigsty  and  brought  up  like  other 
village  louts!  What  on  earth  had  such  a  fellow  to  do 
with  Oxford?  Democracy  was  a  noble  and  righteous 
thing,  but  gentlemen  should  surely  have  some  privi- 
lege of  their  own.  Stretton  checked  his  thoughts  with 
a  jerk,  remembering  that  he  was  a  "democrat"  himself 
and  a  candidate  on  the  people's  side  in  the  General 
Election  next  month. 

David  Heath  dropped  the  hammer  and  laughed  as 
he  wiped  the  sweat  off  his  forehead  with  the  back  of 
his  hand. 

"I  feel  better  after  that,"  he  said,  filling  his  chest 
with  a  great  breath.  "By  Jove!  it's  better  exercise 
than  rowing." 

"My  word,  laddie,"  chuckled  Jonathan  Heath, 
"you've  not  let  your  muscles  go  slack." 

Then  Stretton  heard  Alicia's  voice  from  the  dark- 
ness. 

"I  love  to  see  you  swinging  the  hammer,  David. 
It's  like  old  times." 

"Ah,  Miss  Frensham,  it's  good  to  be  home  again, 
in  spite  of  old  Oxford." 

There  was  a  thrill  in  the  man's  voice  which  Stretton 
understood.  He  knew  that  vibrating  note  of  emotion, 
having  heard  it  in  his  own  voice  when  speaking  to 
some  women  in  the  yesterdays  of  his  life. 

"No  admittance  except  on  business,  I  presume?" 

He  stepped  inside  the  shed,  taking  his  hat  off.    There 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  51 

was  a  moment's  silence,  David  Heath  and  his  father 
staring  at  him  with  frank  surprise,  not  recognising  in 
this  well-dressed  stranger  the  boy  they  had  known  as 
"the  young  master  at  the  Hall"  ten  years  ago.  Then 
Alicia  came  forward  with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure. 

"You  here,  Mr.  Wingfield!  How  nice  of  you  to 
come." 

She  turned  to  the  younger  man  with  a  note  of  excite- 
ment in  her  voice. 

"David,  don't  you  remember  Mr.  Wingfield?  You 
must  have  known  each  other  when  you  were  both  boys 
here." 

Stretton  was  startled  for  a  moment  at  the  way  in 
which  the  girl  assumed  a  perfect  equality  between 
the  blacksmith's  son  and  himself,  the  heir  to  Stretton 
Hall.  But  he  held  out  his  hand  with  a  good-natured 
grace,  and  found  it  in  a  powerful  grasp. 

"Why,  to  be  sure,  it's  Stretton  Wingfield!"  David 
Heath  spoke  with  cordial  gaiety,  as  one  friend  to 
another.  Then  with  sudden  self -consciousness  he 
stepped  back  and  said  with  a  shade  of  deference,  "I 
am  glad  to  see  you  again,  sir." 

"I  hear  you  are  down  from  Oxford,  David.  You've 
been  doing  great  things,  too,  I'm  told.  What  college?" 

"New,"  said  David. 

"Mine  was  Balliol." 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other,  and  in  a  subtle  in- 
stinctive way  they  both  felt  that  there  was  a  spirit  of 
antagonism  between  them,  though  it  was  not  apparent 
to  the  onlookers. 


52  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"A  funny  old  place,  Oxford,"  said  Stretton,  sitting 
down  on  a  great  cart-wheel  leaning  against  the  side  of 
the  shed.  "It  seems  a  lifetime  since  I  came  down." 

"How  long  is  it?"  asked  David  Heath. 

"It's  ten  years  as  a  matter  of  fact,  but  I've  seen  a 
good  deal  since  then,  which  makes  me  feel  pretty 
ancient." 

"You've  been  a  great  traveller,"  said  David. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Stretton 
began  to  talk  in  his  vivid  way,  monopolising  the  con- 
versation. 

"Oxford  is  such  a  young  place,  the  home  of  eternal 
childhood.  Even  the  bald-headed  old  Dons  are  quite 
children,  and  the  undergraduates  are  babies  posing  as 
men.  They  are  posing  all  the  time,  and  each  one  knows 
in  his  heart  that  he  is  posing,  and  that  the  others  know 
it  too.  The  awful  cynicism  that  is  talked  in  college 
rooms  by  youths  who  are  really  red-blooded  optimists ! 
The  morbid  ideas  that  are  solemnly  put  forth  by 
healthy  young  animals  who  don't  care  a  damn — saving 
Miss  Frensham's  presence — for  anything  but  boating, 
footer,  and  flirtation!  The  great  impossible  ideas  that 
are  inspired  by  whisky  and  Craven  Mixture!  The 
fearful  egotism,  the  wonderful  conceit  of  these  blue- 
eyed  boys  who  think  they  know  life  backwards  because 
they  have  read  the  satires  of  Juvenal  and  the  odes  of 
Horace!  Oh,  it  is  beautiful!  I  look  back  on  those 
days  as  Methuselah  must  have  looked  back  on  his 
childhood." 

"Is  it  quite  so  bad  as  that?"  said  Alicia  saucily 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  53 

from  her  dark  corner.  "I  have  always  looked  upon 
Oxford  as  the  training  school  of  politicians  and  Empire- 
builders,  and  of  the  men  who  do  things  in  the  world." 

"So  it  is,"  said  Stretton,  "it's  the  nursery  for  the 
Empire,  right  enough.  But  that  is  because  men  who 
have  money  and  influential  relations  and  the  things 
that  count  for  success  in  life  pass  through  the  'Varsity 
as  a  natural,  necessary  thing,  just  as  they  pass  through 
measles  and  whooping  cough  and  the  incidents  of  child- 
hood. It  is  not  Oxford  or  Cambridge  that  makes  them 
Empire-builders  or  bishops.  It  is  the  prerogative  of 
caste,  and  the  law  of  opportunity  plus  a  reasonable 
share  of  brains." 

"Ah,  there's  a  deal  of  snobbishness  in  the  world!" 
said  Jonathan  Heath,  with  a  sudden  blast  of  his  bel- 
lows which  set  the  fire  glowing  again. 

"Then  you  don't  believe  in  a  University  education?" 
said  Alicia  to  Stretton. 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  not  running  down  Oxford,"  said 
Stretton,  laughing  a  little.  "For  one  thing  it  teaches 
a  fellow  good  manners.  Not  always  though.  Some 
of  the  biggest  cads  I  ever  met  were  'Varsity  men.  Still, 
generally  speaking,  it  turns  out  a  good  type  of  English- 
man— clean,  physically  fit,  self-reliant,  reserved,  com- 
mon-sense men,  insular  in  their  ideas,  and  with  a  mass 
of  old  traditions  and  vague  illogical  prejudices,  but 
very  well-meaning,  and  fairly  efficient  for  all  the  ordi- 
nary business  of  life.  Snobs,  every  one  of  them,  of 
course,  as  Mr.  Heath  observed  just  now." 

"Well,  there  is  one  that  is  not  a  snob,"  said  Alicia, 


54  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

gaily  putting  her  hand  on  the  younger  Heath's  arm 
with  a  gesture  of  affection  that  did  not  pass  unnoticed 
by  Stretton  Wingfield. 

"Now,  David,  stand  up  for  Oxford  like  a  man.  You 
have  not  said  a  word  for  its  honour." 

David  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  anvil  swinging 
the  hammer  between  his  legs.  His  eyes  had  been  on 
the  ground  while  Stretton  was  speaking,  and  his  broad 
forehead  was  knitted  in  a  very  characteristic  way  of 
his  when  he  was  thinking  and  listening.  At  Alicia's 
words  he  looked  up  and  smiled,  flushing  slightly. 

"I  am  not  much  hand  at  talking  except  when  I  am 
up  for  the  job." 

"I  am  glad  you  added  that  saving  clause,"  said 
Alicia.  "You  were  Goliath  at  the  Union — though  you 
are  called  David — and  banged  your  opponents  with 
mighty  arguments.  Don't  think  we  haven't  heard  of 
your  exploits!" 

Stretton  Wingfield  could  see  in  Alicia's  eyes  the 
almost  motherly  pride  she  had  in  the  son  of  the  forge. 

David  answered  her  with  a  flash  from  his  dark  eyes 
in  which  the  glow  of  the  blacksmith's  fire  seemed  to 
be  reflected.  Then  with  a  certain  ruggedness  and 
rusticity  of  speech  that  had  not  been  quite  conquered 
by  Oxford  culture,  he  told  something  of  his  experiences 
of  'Varsity  life.  He  had  some  of  the  picturesqueness 
of  Stretton's  phrases,  but  he  went  more  to  the  heart 
of  things.  Stretton  could  guess  more  than  the  words 
revealed.  It  was  evident  rather  from  what  he  left 
unsaid  than  from  what  he  actually  observed  that  he 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  55 

had  had  a  difficult  time,  that  he  had  been  an  outsider, 
left  very  much  alone  in  his  rooms,  and  looked  upon 
by  the  other  men  in  his  college  as  a  "half-baked" 
fellow,  a  scallawag  whose  object  at  the  University  was 
to  cram  hard  and  strenuously.  Probably,  however,  his 
reticence,  his  good-nature,  above  all,  no  doubt,  his 
immense  physical  strength,  had  gradually  won  him  the 
respect  of  men  who  would  have  resented  the  "push" 
of  the  ordinary  Board  School  cockney,  but  were  sur- 
prised into  admiration  by  this  young  Goth  with  country 
speech  and  manners.  It  was  evident  that  there  was 
none  of  the  ordinary  priggishness  of  the  self-educated 
scholar  in  the  blacksmith's  son.  There  was  a  certain 
grandeur  about  his  simplicity  which  seemed  to  have 
saved  him  from  the  petty  jealousies,  the  rankling  re- 
sentment of  better-dressed,  better-mannered  men,  from 
envy  and  imitation,  and  crude  snobbishness,  which 
make  the  ordinary  democrat  so  objectionable  and  so 
self -tormenting  among  men  of  higher  social  caste. 

"I  went  to  Oxford  to  work.  Of  course,  that  put  me 
at  a  disadvantage.  Most  men  go  there  to  play.  I 
don't  blame  them.  From  the  first  I  was  impressed 
with  the  social  instincts  of  the  men  around  me.  That 
taught  me  more  than  my  books.  After  all,  you  know, 
I  could  have  studied  those  almost  as  well  in  the  shed 
to  the  tune  of  father's  anvil." 

"Ah!"  said  Stretton,  as  David  came  to  a  full  stop 
with  a  laugh.  "It  must  have  been  a  revelation  to  you 
— the  enormous  importance  in  life  of  friendship  and 
sport  and  manners.  When  those  same  men  who  shirked 


56  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

study  so  light-heartedly  take  their  place  in  the  army 
or  the  diplomatic  service,  or  in  the  Church,  their 
humanity  will  pull  them  through  without  the  slightest 
need  of  book-learning.  They  are  men;  and  after  all 
the  qualities  of  manhood,  as  they  are  reckoned  at 
Oxford,  count  for  more  in  the  leadership  of  nations 
than  classical  knowledge  or  advanced  mathematics. 
Don't  you  agree?" 

David  nodded.    "I'm  not  disagreeing." 

"What  do  you  think  is  the  most  valuable  thing  you 
have  learnt  at  Oxford?"  said  Stretton. 

David  balanced  his  great  hammer  in  his  hand  and 
knotted  his  brows.  He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then 
spoke  with  a  certain  intensity. 

"I  reckon  the  best  thing  I  learned  was  to  understand 
the  instincts  of  you  English  gentlemen." 

"By  Jove!"  said  Stretton,  laughing.  "That  must 
have  cost  you  something." 

David  stared  at  the  forge  and  was  silent  again.  This 
lapse  into  silence  was  a  rather  curious  character- 
istic of  the  man.  "They  have  deep-rooted  distrust 
and  hatred  of  the  lower  classes,"  he  said,  as  if 
arguing  the  subject  out.  "It  is  not  because  they 
want  to  keep  us  down,  or  because  in  a  selfish  way 
they  want  to  enjoy  all  the  good  things  of  this  life 
at  the  expense  of  the  democracy.  Some  of  them  do, 
of  course;  but  with  most  of  them  it  is  because  instinc- 
tively— they  don't  argue  about  it — they  are  afraid  of 
the  stupidity,  the  greed,  and  the  violence  of  the  people. 
Most  of  all  because  they  dislike  their  manners.  Vul- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  57 

garity  of  speech,  of  dress  and  behaviour,  is  more  ter- 
rible to  them  than  the  loss  of  some  of  their  wealth. 
To  be  put  on  the  same  level  with  men  who  drop  their 
h's,  who  are  'loud'  in  their  way  of  talking  and  dressing, 
and  whose  ideas  about  life  are  hard  and  crude  and 
ugly,  is  a  vision  they  can't  abide.  Labour  members  in 
Parliament  and  the  leaders  of  the  people  in  other  fields 
of  life  are  hated  not  so  much  because  of  their  princi- 
ples, but  because  as  a  rule  they  are  canting  prigs  and 
social  hunkses.  The  first  thing  we  must  do  to  bring 
about  socialism  and  equality  is  to  mend  our  manners." 

"By  Gad!"  said  Stretton  Wingfield,  "I  believe  you're 
right.  You  have  got  down  to  the  heart  of  truth.  I 
suppose  I  am  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  all  that,  but  I 
am  on  the  side  of  the  people,  because  in  foreign  coun- 
tries and  elsewhere  I  have  been  able  to  brush  on  one 
side  the  differences  of  an  accent,  and  among  naked 
black  people  to  see  the  real  equality  of  men  and  women 
below  all  caste  and  the  cut  of  clothes.  That  is  what 
most  of  our  insular  gentry  cannot  do." 

"Are  you  on  the  side  of  the  people?"  asked  David. 

Stretton  hesitated. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  I  shall  not  be  on  the  Con- 
servative side  in  the  General  Election.  I  am  putting 
up  for  South  Bermondsey." 

Alicia  uttered  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad!"  she  said.    "I  am  so  glad!" 

There  was  an  excited  light  in  her  eyes,  and  she  came 
across  the  shed  to  where  Wingfield  sat  and  took  his 
hand  to  congratulate  him. 


58  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

It  was  one  of  those  unconventional  gestures  of  hers 
which  distinguished  her  from  all  other  women  Wing- 
field  had  known. 

"Do  your  aunts  know?"  she  said,  and  then  she 
laughed,  "Poor  dear  ladies,  it  is  quite  against  the 
family  traditions!  And  your  uncle  who  is  in  the 
Cabinet?" 

Stretton  joined  in  her  laughter. 

"I'm  afraid  there  will  be  a  family  feud,"  he  said. 
"Don't  tell  the  aunts.  It  is  still  a  secret." 

"Oh,  you  may  trust  us,"  said  Alicia,  turning  her 
eyes  to  David  and  his  father  Jonathan.  "But  I  am  so 
glad!  I  am  a  democrat  to  the  very  heart  and  bone 
of  me.  David  and  I  have  talked  it  out  a  hundred 
times." 

Stretton  smiled  at  her  excitement. 

"You  are  the  sort  of  woman  to  lead  a  revolution," 
he  said. 

After  some  lighter  conversation,  and  some  slow, 
deliberate  speeches  from  Jonathan  Heath — who 
shrewdly  enough,  but  without  his  son's  facility  of 
speech,  summed  up  the  political  situation  and  gave  a 
forecast  of  the  coming  election  and  the  war  between 
the  Socialists  and  Conservatives — Stretton  Wingfield 
left  the  blacksmith's  shed  and  went  for  his  walk  along 
the  village.  He  had  intended  to  think  out  his  future 
actions  in  the  political  campaign,  but  his  thoughts  went 
back  again  and  again  to  the  conversation  in  which  he 
had  just  taken  part.  Alicia  had  been  silent  most  of 
the  time,  but  he  had  watched  her  as  the  firelight  played 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  59 

on  her  face,  and  he  had  noticed  her  quick  changes  of 
expression,  the  glow  of  her  eyes  when  David  spoke, 
the  look  of  joy  that  had  crept  into  them  when  Stretton 
had  announced  his  political  purpose.  She  had  been 
silent,  but  in  her  silence  there  was  a  beauty  and  elo- 
iquence  which  seemed  to  put  a  spell  upon  Stretton 
Wingfield,  stirring  his  blood  in  a  way  that  only  a  few 
women  had  ever  done.  It  had  a  kind  of  fragrant 
sympathy  that  stole  into  his  senses.  Though  so 
spiritual  in  expression  there  was  a  caressing  touch  in 
the  pressure  of  her  hands  and  a  sense  of  matronliness 
about  her,  indescribable  and  almost  unaccountable,  con- 
sidering how  young  she  was,  that  appealed  strongly  to 
the  need  that  was  in  him  to  lean  upon  a  woman,  to 
lean  intellectually  even  more  than  physically  upon  a 
woman's  breast.  This  was  not  necessarily  a  sign  of 
weakness  in  him.  Many  of  the  strongest  minds, 
thought  Stretton,  who  was  always  self-analysing,  have 
needed  a  woman  of  true  instincts  and  warm  sympathies 
to  give  them  refreshment  and  encouragement,  and  to 
act  as  a  stimulus  as  well  as  to  exercise  a  restraint  upon 
their  ambition. 

The  man  halted  at  a  gate,  leaning  with  his  arms 
upon  it,  and  gazing  with  brooding  eyes  across  the 
cornfields  where  the  midday  sun  beat  down  with  a  white 
heat  upon  the  ripening  wheat.  The  air  was  drowsy 
with  the  hum  of  a  myriad  insects.  From  the  village 
came  the  distant  shouts  of  children,  and  the  clang  of 
the  anvil  resounded  with  a  faint  far-off  harmony.  But 
apart  from  these  undisturbing  sounds  of  human  work 


60  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

and  life,  and  the  humming  orchestra  of  the  insect 
world,  a  great  silence  was  upon  the  land,  and  Stretton 
was  alone  with  his  soul. 

"I  must  have  Alicia,"  he  muttered  aloud.  "She  has 
taken  a  hold  of  me." 

Then  he  thought  of  David  Heath,  with  his  great 
height,  his  heavy,  rugged  face,  his  dark  smouldering 
eyes,  in  which  there  was  passion  as  well  as  strength. 
What  was  the  relationship  between  him  and  Alicia? 
Supposing  David  Heath  barred  the  path  between 
Stretton  Wingfield  and  the  woman  he  desired? 

Wingfield  in  the  clear  sunlight,  and  in  the  haze  of 
heat  that  shimmered  over  the  yellowing  corn,  had  a 
sudden  vision  of  the  blacksmith's  son  standing  with 
the  great  hammer  above  his  head  and  with  the  left 
arm,  bear  to  the  shoulder  blade,  thrust  out  in  front 
of  Alicia.  The  picture  was  so  vivid  in  Stretton's  brain 
that  he  went  slightly  pale  beneath  his  tanned  skin, 
as  if  he  were  really  in  danger  of  being  smashed  to  pulp. 
Then  as  he  realised  the  falsity  of  his  own  fancy  he 
gave  an  uneasy  laugh,  and  turned  away  from  the  gate. 
He  lit  a  pipe  and  smoked  it  as  he  strolled  along  the 
white  road  back  to  the  village. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THAT  night  after  dinner  at  Stretton  Hall,  Wingfield 
learnt  a  good  deal  about  the  history  of  Alicia  when  he 
sat  over  his  wine  with  Mr.  Cartwright,  the  Vicar.  The 
dinner  itself  had  amused  Stretton.  The  behaviour 
of  the  two  aunts  was  entertaining,  for  Miss  Agnes 
could  not  conceal  her  devotion  to  "that  saint-like  man," 
as  she  had  called  him  in  private  to  her  nephew,  and 
Miss  Cecily,  though  she  could  never  fail  to  be  sweet 
and  charming,  was  just  a  little  rebellious  in  spirit 
against  a  man  whose  personality  she  admired,  but 
whose  principles  she  abhorred.  Miss  Agnes  evidently 
thought  that  the  Vicar's  asceticism,  though  a  holy 
thing,  was  to  be  counteracted  by  heavy  meals  when  he 
allowed  himself  a  social  dinner.  Shs  insisted,  in  spite 
of  his  polite  protests,  that  he  should  have  two  serves 
of  roast  beef,  and  would  not  take  a  refusal  of  the  jam 
omelette  which  she  had  prepared  with  her  own  hands. 
Miss  Cecily,  on  the  other  hand,  had  shown  her  dis- 
approval of  High  Church  doctrine  by  crumbling  her 
bread  during  the  Latin  grace  with  which  the  Vicar  had 
prefaced  his  meal.  To  Stretton,  who  never  failed  to  be 
interested  by  any  new  acquaintance  who  was  not 
utterly  commonplace,  the  Vicar  was  a  man  worth 
studying,  and  he  kept  a  check  upon  his  own  tongue  in 

61 


62  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

order  to  listen  attentively  to  the  clergyman's  conver- 
sation. 

Cuthbert  Cartwright  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  with 
a  thin  refined  face,  powerful  in  its  profile,  and  very 
handsome  but  for  its  weak  mouth.  He  had  the  rather 
high-pitched  clerical  tones  of  speech,  intoning  his 
words  almost,  with  an  exaggerated  sense  of  the  values 
of  small  syllables.  He  was  an  Oxford  man,  of  course, 
and  Balliol,  too,  so  that  Stretton  could  quickly  find  a 
common  ground  of  conversation,  but  his  self-con- 
sciousness was  almost  painful,  and  to  Stretton,  who 
was  in  a  cynical  mood,  it  seemed  that  the  man  was 
spoiled  by  the  sense  of  his  own  saintliness. 

From  the  conversation  between  Cartwright  and  his 
aunt,  it  was  evident  to  Stretton  that  the  Vicar's  ritu- 
alistic ideals  had  made  but  little  headway  in  Long 
Stretton.  He  was  lamenting  that  so  few  parishioners 
attended  the  daily  services  which  he  held  morning  and 
afternoon.  He  seemed  surprised  also  that  the  villagers 
were  so  churlish  and  unfriendly,  and  even  at  times- 
he  was  bound  to  say  so — impolite;  although  he  had 
taken  occasion  to  mention  the  matter  in  the  village 
school,  and  privately  to  the  parents,  the  boys  of  the 
place  would  seldom  touch  their  caps  to  him. 

This  reproach  against  the  manners  of  the  village 
hurt  both  the  ladies,  and  even  Miss  Agnes  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  defend  her  "dear  people." 

"I  am  sure  they  do  not  mean  to  be  rude,  my  dear 
Mr.  Cartwright,"  she  said,  flushing  a  little,  "but  coun- 
try people  are  always  slow  in  making  friends.  Your 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  63 

predecessor,  poor  old  Mr.  Martin,  quite  lived  among 
them  all  his  life  and  they  knew  all  his  little  ways.  He 
was  a  family  friend  of  every  one  of  them,  and  took  as 
much  delight  in  a  marriage  or  a  birth  as  if  it  had  all 
been  his  doing.  And  the  amount  of  sweetstuff  he 
used  to  buy  was  really  extraordinary.  He  always  had 
lollipops  in  his  pocket  for  any  small  children  he  might 
encounter  on  his  morning  walks.  I  often  used  to  tell 
him  it  was  quite  demoralizing.  But  he  was  a  dear  old 
gentleman,  and  every  soul  in  the  village  loved  him.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  grief  of  the  people— and  our 
grief — when  he  died." 

"He  was  a  staunch  Protestant,  of  course,"  said  Miss 
Cecily,  with  a  little  quiver  of  excitement  at  her  own 
audacity — "an  English  clergyman  of  the  good  old- 
fashioned  school." 

Cuthbert  Cartwright  flushed  a  little  uneasily  and 
addressed  his  answer  to  Miss  Agnes  rather  than  to 
Miss  Cecily. 

"Of  course  those  of  us  who  know  the  sacred  meaning 
of  priesthood  could  not  tolerate  any  such  sense  of 
equality  between  the  priest  and  his  people." 

Miss  Agnes  was  silent,  but  Miss  Cecily  gave  a  sig- 
nificant sniff  to  hint  at  her  disagreement  with  this 
axiom. 

Stretton  smoothed  over  the  situation  by  launching 
into  a  disquisition  upon  "the  eternal  priesthood,"  illus- 
trated by  anecdotes  of  African  witch-doctors  to  prove 
that  even  in  savage  countries  the  priest  was  a  man 
apart  from  his  kind.  Cartwright  took  his  arguments 


64  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

to  be  in  favour  of  his  own  claims,  but  Stretton,  who 
wished  him  to  think  so,  was  secretly  amused  at  the 
complacency  with  which  the  Anglican  allowed  his 
office  to  be  compared  to  the  Ju-ju  of  tropical  tribes. 

Stretton's  advocacy,  however,  obtained  the  clergy- 
man's friendship,  and  when  the  two  ladies  had  retired 
he  warmed  a  little,  and  became  more  human  over  his 
wine.  Stretton  turned  the  conversation  towards  the 
social  side  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  after  listening  to 
some  portrait-studies  of  retired  colonels,  country 
clergymen,  and  other  local  gentry,  he  casually  intro- 
duced the  name  of  Miss  Frensham. 

"It  is  not  usual,  is  it,"  he  said,  "for  the  ordinary 
village  schoolmistress  to*  be  as  much  a  lady  as  Miss 
Frensham  seems?  My  aunts  are  great  sticklers  for 
gentility,  but  they  have  admitted  the  girl  to  their 
friendship." 

"She  is  herself  altogether  unusual,"  said  the  Vicar, 
after  a  momentary  hesitation,  not  lost  upon  the  ob- 
servant Stretton. 

"She  comes  of  a  strange  stock,  you  know.  Her 
father  was  Francis  Frensham,  the  Manchester  pam- 
phleteer. I  don't  suppose  you  remember  his  name, 
but  twenty  years  ago  he  wrote  a  remarkable  series  of 
democratic  tracts  which  attracted  a  good  deal  of  atten- 
tion in  their  time.  He  was  an  out-and-out  freethinker, 
or  rather  a  fighting  agnostic,  and  yet  I  believe  much 
beloved  in  Manchester  for  the  strength  and  real  nobil- 
ity of  his  character.  That  is  one  of  the  problems  of 
life  which  to  me  are  a  mystery.  I  cannot  understand 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  65 

how  a  man  steeped  in  pestilential  heresies  and  most 
dangerous  theories  can  be  in  private  life  so  praise- 
worthy and  Christ-like." 

He  paused,  expecting  Stretton  to  agree  with  him; 
but  Wingfield,  who  was  himself  an  agnostic,  avoided  a 
direct  answer. 

"How  about  Alicia?"  he  said.  "It  was  a  curious 
atmosphere  for  a  girl,  certainly." 

"Her  mother  died  when  she  was  a  child,  and  Francis 
Frensham  devoted  himself  to  her  education.  She  was 
almost  suckled  ou  Socialism — if  you  will  permit  the 
phrase." 

"Certainly,"  said  Stretton.    "It  is  expressive." 

"And  she  was  brought  up  in  what  to  all  Christian 
people  must  seem  a  lax  moral  code.  Among  Fren- 
sham's  extraordinary  and  most  damnable  theories — 
pray  pardon  the  adjective " 

"Don't  mention  it,"  murmured  Stretton. 

" was  a  disbelief  in  the  sacrament  of  marriage. 

He  was  one  of  the  foremost  advocates  of  what  we  may 
call  perhaps  experimental  unions." 

"It  is  a  good  term,"  said  Stretton.  "But  does  Alicia, 
Miss  Frensham,  believe  in  these  things?  If  so,  how 
on  earth  did  my  aunts  tolerate  her  as  mistress  of  the 
village  school?" 

"That  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me,  though 
there  is  an  explanation  of  a  kind.  When  Frensham 
died,  leaving  his  daughter  penniless  at  eighteen  years 
of  age,  she  was  adopted  by  an  old  school-fellow  of  your 
aunts',  who  recommended  her  as  a  teacher  when  she 


66  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

had  passed  through  the  training-college  at  Manchester 
and  had  qualified  as  a  mistress.  I  understand  your 
aunts  accepted  her  on  that  recommendation,  knowing 
nothing  of  her  antecedents,  and  still  being  ignorant  of 
her  peculiar  views.  Miss  Frensham,  with  all  her  high 
spirits,  is  very  reticent  about  her  private  opinions; 
and  wisely  so,  no  doubt.  I  am  bound  to  say,  how- 
ever, that  my  conscience  is  not  quite  at  rest  on  the 
matter.  Were  it  not  that  I  believe  Miss  Frensham  has 
a  sincere  reverence  for  the  Christian  faith,  and  that  I 
know  she  teaches  the  children  the  Catechism  with  the 
most  scrupulous  care  and  tenderness,  I  should  have 
been  bound  to  tell  your  aunts  what  I  know  about  her 
early  environment." 

"I  shouldn't  say  anything  about  it  if  I  were  you," 
said  Stretton,  looking  keenly  at  the  Vicar,  who  was 
in  a  state  of  some  excitement. 

"I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Cartwright 
nervously.  "The  fact  is,  Miss  Frensham  has  a  dis- 
position— which — I  may  say — as  you  have  no  doubt 
observed — is  singularly  sweet  and  attractive.  I  have 
also  hopes  of  winning  her  over  to  the  blessed  truths 
of  Christian  Catholicism.  I  have  had  many  conversa- 
tions with  her  on  the  subject,  and  she  is  very  sympa- 
thetic, though  still  intellectually  obstinate." 

"I  believe  the  man  is  in  love  with  her,"  thought 
Stretton.  He  smoked  his  cigar  thoughtfully  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  put  an  abrupt  question. 

"How  did  young  David  Heath  manage  to  go  to 
Oxford?" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  67 

The  Vicar  flushed  hotly. 

"Oh,  it  was  one  of  old  Martin's  follies — my  Lutheran 
predecessor,  you  know.  He  left  the  lad  some  money 
to  get  him  to  the  University.  He  had  a  strong  belief 
in  young  Heath's  abilities.  In  that,  of  course,  he  was 
justified,  because  he  has  taken  a  very  good  place,  I 
hear.  But  the  foolishness — the  wickedness  of  it.  A 
blacksmith's  son!  It  is  preposterous!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Stretton  deliberately,  "Christ  was 
a  carpenter's  son." 

The  Vicar  could  find  no  answer  to  these  words.  They 
seemed  to  him  singularly  wanting  in  decency. 

"Shall  we  rejoin  the  ladies?"  he  said  coldly,  after 
a  moment's  uncomfortable  silence,  during  which 
stretton  wished  weakly  that  he  had  not  given  his 

tongue  the  slip. 

***** 

Stretton  Wingfield  walked  home  with  Mr.  Cart- 
wright  after  some  music  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
parted  with  him  at  the  Vicarage  in  a  friendly  manner, 
though  he  was  still  a  little  formal  and  stiff.  On  the 
way  back  he  passed  the  school-house.  It  was  a  hot 
night  and  a  light  was  showing  through  the  open  win- 
dow, showing  that  Alicia  Frensham  had  not  yet  gone 
to  bed.  Stretton  stopped  by  the  low  garden  wall  and 
looked  into  the  room,  seeing  the  girl  quite  clearly 
bending  over  the  table  reading  a  book  with  her  head 
resting  on  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

A  sudden  and  irresistible  desire  seized  him  to  talk 
with  her.  The  Vicar  had  bored  him  towards  the  end 


68  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

of  the  evening  until  he  had  openly  yawned,  and  even 
the  aunts  had  tired  him  with  their  polite  little  plati- 
tudes. There  in  the  room  was  a  woman  whose  words 
were  always  sincere  and  thoughtful.  He  wanted  to 
see  the  steady  look  in  the  brown  eyes  that  were  now 
turned  down  to  the  pages  of  the  book.  He  felt  in  an 
excited,  nervous  mood,  irritable  with  himself  and 
others,  and  needed  the  sympathy  and  the  sweetness  of 
such  a  woman  as  Alicia,  who  could  understand  him. 
It  was  late,  but  the  night  was  very  warm  and  the  moon 
was  high.  How  charming  the  little  cottage  looked 
with  the  silver  light  gleaming  on  its  grey  stones  and 
filtering  through  the  ivy  leaves!  How  beautiful — 
yes,  beautiful,  really — Alicia  looked  with  the  candle- 
light gleaming  on  her  hair,  giving  it  a  halo  and  mould- 
ing the  face  in  high  light  and  shadows.  With  her  head 
bent  down  and  her  serious  lips,  she  looked  like  a  saint, 
like  some  St.  Cecilia  in  a  coloured  missal. 

He  called  to  her — softly,  so  as  not  to  frighten  her. 

"Miss  Frensham!     Are  you  there?" 

She  put  up  her  head  suddenly  and  listened  with  a 
startled  look.  Then  she  came  to  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  I — Stretton  Wingfield."  He  laughed  quietly. 
"I  have  just  been  seeing  the  Vicar  home.  What  a  man! 
...  I  say,  it's  a  lovely  night,  so  warm,  and  light  as  day. 
Do  you  ever  go  for  a  stroll  at  such  an  hour?" 

"Sometimes,"  said  Alicia.     He  could  not  see  her 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  69 

face  now,  as  it  was  in  front  of  the  light  and  in  the 
shadow. 

"Well,  come  out  for  a  few  minutes." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said  quietly — 

"Very  well." 

She  went  away  from  the  window,  and  after  a  minute 
came  out  of  her  door  with  some  white  lace  upon  her 
head. 

"Won't  your  aunts  expect  you  back?"  she  said, 
coming  towards  the  gate. 

"No,  they  have  gone  to  bed  already,  and  I  often 
walk  about  before  turning  in." 

She  stood  by  his  side  and  looked  up  the  road,  which 
wound  upwards  to  the  Downs. 

"Where  shall  we  walk?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  let  us  get  on  to  the  hill  where  the  moon  shines," 
said  Stretton.  "I  love  walking  in  the  moonlight." 

"All  right,"  said  Alicia.  "They  say  there  are  fairies 
at  night  who  dance  around  the  dew-ponds.  Let  us  go 
and  see  them." 

She  laughed  softly,  and  Stretton  echoed  her  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  we  shall  see  fairies  to-night,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VII 

STRETTON  and  Alicia  often  looked  back  in  after  days 
to  that  night  walk  on  the  Downs.  There  are  such 
days  and  nights  in  the  lives  of  most  of  us,  which  stand 
apart  from  all  other  and  commonplace  hours;  when 
our  souls  or  spirits,  or  what  other  word  one  may 
choose,  are  not  quite  on  the  earth,  but  a  little  in  the 
clouds;  when  some  prosaic  and  even  ugly  environment, 
a  London  street,  a  small  restaurant,  a  railway  station, 
is  glorified  and  made  romantic  by  some  intense  ex- 
perience of  joy  or  pain.  .  .  . 

The  environment  in  which  Alicia  and  Stretton 
walked  that  night  was  neither  prosaic  nor  ugly.  The 
road  up  which  they  went,  rather  silently  and  with  only 
light  and  casual  words,  was  lined  on  either  side  by 
young  beech  trees,  through  which  the  moonlight 
streamed,  making  a  pattern  of  Irish  lacework  upon 
the  white  chalky  road.  From  the  fields  beyond,  on 
either  side,  came  rich  country  scents  of  ripening  wheat 
and  haystacks,  and  the  incense  of  poppies,  in  flower 
and  seed,  and  the  smell  of  the  brown  earth.  At  a  turn 
of  the  road  there  was  a  stone  farmhouse,  with  old 
barns  and  sheds  in  which  the  shadows  lurked;  and 
in  the  farmyard  great  yellow  carts,  with  their  poles  rest- 
ing on  the  ground,  waited  for  the  dawn  and  the  coming 

70 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  71 

of  the  horses.  Then  higher  up  a  cottage  thatched  down 
to  the  windows  stood  by  the  roadside,  a  solitary  thing, 
far,  as  it  seemed,  from  the  village  below. 

Alicia  spoke  of  it. 

"Surely,  if  one  didn't  know  the  shepherd  one  would 
think  a  witch  lived  there.  Can't  you  see  her  coming 
to  the  door  with  blinking  eyes  and  hooked  nose,  and 
the  black  cat  arching  its  back  beside  her?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stretton.  "I  remember  the  cottage  in 
fairy-book  pictures.  It's  in  the  story  where  the  chil- 
dren were  put  into  the  cage.  The  boy  was  too  smart 
for  her — wasn't  he? — and  put  a  bone  through  the  bars 
when  she  wanted  to  feel  how  fat  he  was." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  road  the  trees  suddenly 
stopped  on  either  side  as  if  tired  of  climbing,  and  the 
fields  ended  with  them  at  the  foot  of  the  Downs  which 
ran  up  in  undulating  waves  of  close-cropped  grass, 
through  which  the  one  road  wound  to  the  summit — a 
piece  of  white  tape  on  a  green  cloth.  In  one  of  the 
hollows  lay  a  flock  of  sheep  huddled  close  together — 
a  vague  grey  mass.  Occasionally  one  of  them  bleated 
faintly,  but  then  there  was  silence  again — an  intense 
brooding  silence  over  the  sweeping  stretches  of  pas- 
tures which  were  flooded  with  the  light  of  the  moon, 
except  where  there  was  darkness  in  the  depths  of  the 
grass  valleys.  A  dew-pond — one  of  those  pools  about 
the  origin  of  which  there  is  always  a  certain  mystery 
among  country  people — had  attracted  the  night 
mists,  and  above  its  still  surface  there  were  white, 
shifting  vapours. 


72  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Look!"  said  Stretton.  "It  does  not  need  much 
imagination  to  turn  that  mist  into  a  dance  of  nixies 
and  pixies — the  spirits  of  the  pool." 

"There  is  a  quaint  old  legend  about  that  pond," 
said  Alicia.  "They  say  it  was  once  haunted  by  a 
White  Lady  who  used  to  meet  wanderers  on  the  Downs, 
beguiling  them  towards  the  pool.  She  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  men  sometimes  went  mad  at  the  sight  of  her. 
By  the  side  of  the  pool  she  would  put  her  arms  about 
them,  and  whoever  kissed  her  kissed  death  itself." 

Stretton  pointed  to  the  pool. 

"There  she  is!"  he  whispered.  And  truly  it  seemed 
for  a  moment  as  if  the  mist  circling  above  the  water 
had  taken  the  shape  of  a  human  figure. 

At  his  words  Alicia  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  as  if 
she  were  really  frightened,  as  indeed  for  a  moment 
she  was,  having  a  vivid  imagination,  and  to-night  for 
some  reason,  high-strung  nerves. 

Then  they  both  laughed  like  children  who  have 
scared  each  other  by  some  goblin  story. 

"All  old  myths  and  legends  have  their  origin  in 
these  natural  things,"  said  Stretton.  "In  Africa  I 
heard  many  extraordinary  tales  of  devils  and  spirits; 
but,  analysing  them,  I  could  see  how  they  were  alle- 
gories, as  it  were,  of  the  phenomena  of  nature  as  one 
finds  it  in  tropical  countries,  where  some  of  its  moods 
are  violent  and  terrible.  In  the  great  forests  especially 
there  are  all  sorts  of  real  and  imaginary  terrors,  poison- 
ous reptiles,  and  insects,  strange  and  uncanny  noises, 
and  a  constant  sense  of  unknown  dread." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  73 

A  buck  rabbit  scuttled  across  the  road  before  them, 
bobbing  away  across  the  grass;  close  to  them  a  cricket 
chirruped  with  a  tick-tick-tick  sharp  and  distinct. 

"Listen!"  said  Stretton.  "That  is  the  death- 
watch  of  the  summer.  It  is  the  first  warning  note 
that  autumn  is  not  far  off." 

"Yes,"  said  Alicia.  "It  is  curious  how  in  the  very 
harvest  time  one  has  a  foreboding  of  the  decay  of 
summer.  One  can  smell  it — a  faint,  pungent  smell 
like  smoke  from  greenwood  fires.  Do  you  notice  it 
now?  I  suppose  it  is  from  the  first  corruption  of  vege- 
table matter." 

"I  remember  a  passage  in  one  of  Hawthorne's  tales," 
said  Stretton,  "which  alluded  to  that  feeling  and  fra- 
grance of  autumn.  I  quoted  it  in  my  first  book,  'How 
early,'  he  says,  'the  prophecy  of  autumn  comes!  There 
is  no  other  feeling  like  what  is  caused  by  the  faint, 
doubtful,  yet  real  perception — if  it  be  not  rather  a 
foreboding — of  the  year's  decay,  so  obviously  sweet 
and  sad  in  the  same  breath,'  and  then  he  goes  on  in 
his  poetical  way:  'Did  I  say  there  was  no  feeling  like 
it?  Ah,  but  there  is  a  half -acknowledged  melancholy 
like  to  this  when  we  stand  in  the  perfected  vigour  of 
our  life  and  feel  that  Time  has  now  given  us  all  his 
flowers,  and  that  the  next  work  of  his  never  idle  fingers 
must  be  to  steal  them  one  by  one  away.'  It  is  a  charm- 
ing passage,  and  awfully  true!" 

"How  can  you  remember  it  word  for  word?  That 
is  a  thing  I  can  never  do,"  said  Alicia  wonderingly. 

"I  have  a  rather  unusual  memory — having  paid  a 


74  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

good  deal  of  attention  to  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  I  be- 
lieve a  good  memory  is  more  useful  in  debates,  and 
often  in  writing,  than  creative  power.  At  any  rate, 
it  is  the  next  best  thing.  But  as  for  Hawthorne,  I 
must  confess  a  volume  of  his  tales  was  one  of  the  few 
books  I  had  in  Uganda,  and  I  read  it  again  and  again. 
I  believe  I  know  pages  of  it  by  heart." 

They  were  now  on  the  summit  of  the  highest  ridge 
of  the  Downs,  and  the  great  stretch  of  country  lay 
open  before  them  on  either  side.  It  was  a  wonderful 
panorama,  beautiful  as  a  dream  in  the  dew-cold  moon- 
light. Villages  and  hamlets  could  be  seen  for  miles 
away,  marked  by  spots  of  white  in  the  luminous  shad- 
owland.  The  woods  that  crowned  the  far  hills  and 
lay  along  the  village  were  ink-black,  but  a  clump  of 
trees  hiding  Long  Stretton  village  down  below  was 
touched  with  light  as  if  snow  had  fallen  on  the  foliage. 
Hardly  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  even  on  the  heights, 
and  the  pulsating  air  was  warm  upon  their  cheeks. 

Alicia  put  her  hand  on  Stretton's  arm  again  and 
gave  a  little  gasp. 

"Oh!"  she  said.  "How  magic!  I  have  never  seen 
such  beauty!" 

"The  world  seems  asleep,"  said  Stretton,  "and  we 
are  the  only  ones  awake." 

"And  yet  in  the  little  village  there  are  men  and 
women  lying  awake  with  aching  hearts,  perhaps;  I 
never  can  forget  the  awfulness  of  life  even  when  it 
is  most  peaceful  and  beautiful." 

She  spoke  seriously,  with  a  thrill  in  her  voice.    To 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  75 

some  people  the  silent  night  acts  as  a  stimulating  in- 
fluence to  the  most  subtle  senses,  deadening,  as  it 
were,  the  material  side  of  nature  and  releasing  the 
spirit  from  its  bondage  of  the  flesh.  Stretton  stole  a 
glance  at  the  woman  by  his  side  and  saw  how  her  face 
was  transfigured  by  a  spiritual  glamour.  The  white 
lace  had  fallen  from  her  hair,  and  as  she  stood  in  the 
full  light  of  the  moon,  her  face  rather  pale,  her  eyes 
lustrous,  her  nostrils  quivering  a  little,  Stretton  was 
for  a  moment  almost  afraid  of  her,  she  seemed  so  cold 
and  saint-like. 

"You  are  the  White  Lady!"  he  said  in  a  kind  of 
whisper.  Then  he  said  after  a  pause,  with  a  touch 
of  excitement,  though  he  tried  to  hide  it  with  a  laugh, 
"I  believe  I  should  die  if  I  kissed  you ! " 

Alicia  turned  to  him,  smiling,  her  face  flushed 
with  a  sudden  colour. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?" 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  dropped  her  eyes  before  him. 

"No,"  said  Stretton. 

He  moved  towards  her  and  took  her  hands  by  the 
wrists. 

"By  Jove!"  he  said,  breathing  hard,  "if  I  might 
kiss  you  I  would  willingly  die." 

He  drew  her  towards  him,  and  she  yielded,  though 
her  face  went  white  again.  Then  Stretton  kissed  her 
on  the  lips.  For  a  few  moments  he  held  the  woman 
in  his  arms,  and  then  releasing  her,  except  for  the  hand 
which  he  held,  he  looked  into  her  face  and  laughed 
softly. 


76  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Is  there  any  need  for  me  to  die?"  he  asked. 
Alicia  was  trembling,  and  in  her  eyes  burned  strange 
fires.    But  she  laughed  also,  and  said  quietly — 
"It  is  good  to  be  alive." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THERE  was  a  silence  between  them.  They  had  be- 
come aware  of  a  curious  shyness  towards  each  other  fol- 
lowing their  momentary  abandonment.  It  was  Stretton 
who  was  most  self-conscious.  He  was  wondering 
whether  he  had  been  wise  in  going  so  far  with  the  girl. 
He  recognised  his  weakness  in  allowing  the  attraction 
to  break  down  the  restraint  which  he  had  solemnly  im- 
posed upon  himself  with  regard  to  women  beyond  the 
need  of  sympathy  and  friendship  which  was  essential  to 
his  nature.  He  was  uncomfortably  startled  by  the 
sudden  strength  of  passion  which  had  intoxicated  him 
for  a  moment  at  the  very  time  when  the  strange  spirit- 
uality of  Alicia  had  seemed  to  be  his  safeguard  against 
the  warmth  of  his  own  nature.  She  was  not  like  the 
women  who  will  take  and  give  a  kiss  and  then  forget. 
He  knew  even  now,  and  it  made  him  afraid  of  himself 
and  her,  that  she  would  not  play  light-heartedly  with 
love  as  a  game  of  interesting  sensations  which  ends 
with  a  laugh.  She  had  thrilled  him  when  he  held  her 
in  his  arms,  but  though  she  was  not  cold,  her  intellect 
and  her  serious  spirit  made  it  dangerous  to  light  the 
fires  of  her  heart.  These  thoughts  came  to  Stretton 
not  in  such  words  or  phrases  but  as  an  instinct  of  alarm, 
and  so  he  was  silent,  with  the  warmth  of  her  answering 

77 


78  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

kiss  on  his  lips.  It  was  a  relief  to  him  when,  in  her 
frank  way,  matter-of-fact  again,  she  put  the  shawl 
round  her  head,  and  suggested  returning  home  as  the 
air  was  getting  chilly  now  with  the  creeping  up  of  the 
valley  mists. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't  catch  cold,  or  my 
aunts  will  wonder  what  you  have  been  doing  in  this 
warm  weather." 

They  went  briskly  down  the  slope,  and  with  the 
quick  movement  through  the  night  air  their  sense 
of  shyness  to  each  other  disappeared  as  they  became 
more  in  touch  with  the  ordinary  levels  of  life,  leaving 
that  dream  and  vision  on  the  hill.  Down  the  winding 
path  Alicia  took  Wingfield's  hand,  and  they  ran  to- 
gether like  boy  and  girl,  laughing  as  they  sent  the 
rabbits  scuttling  in  fright  to  the  undergrowth.  They 
pulled  up  panting  opposite  the  farm  where  the  fields 
began. 

"What  children  we  are!"  said  Stretton.  "I  had  no 
idea  there  was  so  much  youth  in  my  ancient  bones." 

"People  feel  old  because  they  stand  on  their  dig- 
nity," said  Alicia.  "It  is  better  to  run  without  shame." 

"You  will  be  a  child  at  eighty,"  said  Stretton. 
"Lord,  how  pumped  I  am!" 

He  suddenly  checked  his  laugh,  and  clutching  Alicia 
by  the  arm,  drew  her  quickly  and  without  ceremony 
into  the  shadow  of  the  cart-shed  behind  them. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Alicia. 

"Hush!     Don't  speak." 

He  drew  her  close  to  him,  holding  her  tightly,  and  it 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  79, 

was  evident  from  his  strong  grip  that  he  was  really 
startled.  Alicia  was  more  than  startled.  Stretton's 
alarm  affected  her,  and  not  understanding  the  reason 
of  it,  she  was  in  fear  of  some  unknown  danger  of  a 
terrifying  kind.  She  was  frightened  also  by  her  own 
fear,  which  made  her  hands  cold  and  numb.  She  was 
naturally  a  brave  woman  of  steady  nerve,  and  this 
sudden  sensation  of  dread  that  made  her  heart  thump 
in  a  sickening  way  was  something  quite  new  to  her  ex- 
perience of  life.  This  psychological  adventure  was  as 
brief,  however,  as  it  was  intense;  then  she  guessed  the 
cause  of  Stretton's  action. 

A  man's  footsteps  sounded  on  the  road,  coming 
nearer,  with  a  steady  tread.  Peering  out  of  the  dark- 
ness she  could  see  a  tall  figure  walking  in  the  moon- 
light. From  the  swing  of  the  arms,  the  long  heavy 
stride,  and  the  poise  of  his  head,  she  recognised  him 
at  once. 

"It's  David,"  she  said  to  Stretton.  "Let  us  go  Lo 
meet  him!" 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  said  Stretton  in  a  whisper. 
"It  would  never  do  for  him  to  see  us ! " 

"Why  not?"  she  asked.  She  was  astonished  at  this 
game  of  hiding  from  the  man  who,  as  she  had  said, 
was  her  best  friend. 

"Hush!"  said  Stretton,  drawing  her  back  further 
into  the  shed. 

David  Heath  was  now  close  to  them,  and  then  passed 
on  with  his  steady  tramp.  They  could  see  his  face 
clearly  in  the  moonlight  which  encircled  him  as  he 


80  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

walked,  the  strong  rugged  face,  a  piece  of  sculpture 
with  the  white  light  on  it,  and  with  deep  shadows  under 
the  brows.  Alicia  in  the  darkness  flushed  hotly  as  he 
went  by  unconscious  of  her  presence.  There  seemed 
something  evil  and  humiliating  in  this  fear  of  dis- 
covery. 

When  David  had  turned  the  bend  of  the  road,  Stret- 
ton  released  his  hold  of  Alicia's  arm,  and  taking  a 
breath  of  relief,  laughed  softly. 

"I  say!     That  was  an  escape!" 

"But  why?"  said  Alicia,  "I  don't  understand.  Why 
should  we  be  afraid  of  David?" 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  Stretton,  "don't  you  see  we 
have  been  doing  a  rather  unconventional  thing?  It 
wouldn't  do  for  people  to  know  that  you  have  been 
taking  a  midnight  stroll  with  me." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  there  is  anything  wrong  in  it?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!  But  you  know  what  the  world  is. 
It  puts  an  evil  construction  upon  everything  of  this 
sort." 

"But  David  is  not  the  world,"  said  Alicia.  "He  is 
quite  simple  and  clean-minded.  Besides,  I  hate  se- 
crecy of  any  kind.  The  world  may  know  anything  I 
do,  whatever  they  may  choose  to  think." 

"Don't  be  angry,"  said  Stretton. 

Alicia  laughed  and  smoothed  her  hair  back. 

"I  am  not  angry.  Why  should  I  be?  You  did  it 
for  my  sake.  ...  I  suppose  I  haven't  enough  cau- 
tion. But  I  never  like  hiding  anything — especially 
from  David.  I  felt  mean — and  as  if  I  had  been  doing 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  81 

something  wicked — when  he  passed  without  knowing 
we  were  near  him." 

"It  was  rather  absurd  of  me,"  said  Stretton,  though 
in  his  heart  he  was  profoundly  glad  that  they  had  not 
met  the  blacksmith's  son  face  to  face  at  that  hour  of 
night.  "But  I  confess  I  am  afraid  of  tattling  tongues. 
Of  course,  I  didn't  know  it  was  your  friend  Heath  until 
he  was  close  to  us.  What's  he  up  to,  by  the  by?" 

"Oh,  he  is  fond  of  solitary  walks,"  said  Alicia.  "He 
often  used  to  start  out  for  a  tramp  late  at  night.  He 
used  to  learn  his  Latin  lessons  by  heart  on  such  night 
walks,  after  I  had  been  through  them  with  him  in  the 
evening." 

"What  a  strange  fellow!"  said  Stretton. 

As  they  went  back  to  the  village,  meeting  no  other 
soul  afterwards,  Alicia  talked  of  David,  and  how  she 
had  taught  him  three  years  ago.  She  told  Stretton  of 
the  long  talks  she  used  to  have  with  him  in  the  black- 
smith's shop  while  Jonathan  was  hammering  at  his 
anvil,  and  in  her  own  cottage  where  he  came  to  do  his 
lessons  with  her. 

"I  am  five  years  older  than  he  is,  and  it  is  astonishing 
what  a  difference  that  makes.  I  always  felt  like  a 
mother  to  him." 

Stretton  wondered  whether  David  felt  like  a  son  to 
Alicia,  but  he  did  not  say  so.  She  spoke  with  enthusi- 
asm of  David's  character,  explaining  how  simple  he  was 
in  the  best  sense,  having  no  conceit  or  affectation,  but 
being  filled  with  a  great  humility  in  the  presence  of 
knowledge.  He  was  not  brilliant,  it  seemed,  but  plod- 


82  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

ding  and  indomitable  before  difficulties  that  would  have 
baffled  more  sprightly  minds.  He  had  also  a  natural 
gift  for  language,  and  his  imagination,  though  of  a 
rather  primitive  and  natural  kind,  finding  its  inspira- 
tion in  his  love  for  the  solitude  of  the  woods  and  in  his 
almost  passionate  fondness  for  country  life,  had,  she 
thought,  a  kind  of  Biblical  grandeur  and  strength. 
Alicia  believed  this  was  due  partly  to  the  inherited 
tendencies  from  generations  of  Puritan  and  yeoman 
forefathers,  and  partly  to  the  influence  of  his  father 
Jonathan,  who,  utterly  uncultured  in  book-learning, 
had  a  great  store  of  that  simple  wisdom  and  strong 
natural  intelligence  which  is  still  to  be  found  among  the 
true-bred  stock  of  English  rustics. 

"What's  the  fellow's  philosophy?"  said  Stretton. 

Alicia  laughed. 

"Well,  I  don't  think  he  has  dogmatised  to  himself. 
I  warned  him  against  that.  It  doesn't  do  to  begin  life 
with  too  many  settled  convictions,  does  it?  But  he  is 
a  Socialist  in  politics,  and  instinctively  a  Puritan  in 
religion  and  morality,  though  broad-minded  and  open- 
minded  in  discussing  such  things.  I  was  brought  up 
as  an  agnostic  and  freethinker,  and  naturally  I  am  as 
unorthodox  and  as  much  an  outlaw  in  religion  as  Pavid 
is  naturally  Puritanical  and  conventional.  But  in  our 
long  talks  together  each  of  us  learned  something  from 
the  other.  I  broke  down  David's  narrowness  of  creed, 
and  I  think  I  broadened  his  moral  outlook;  then  he 
taught  me  to  see  the  beauty  of  many  aspects  of  Chris- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  83 

tian  beliefs  and  law  which  my  father  had  taught  me  to 
regard  as  utterly  absurd." 

"What  a  strange  couple  of  children!"  laughed  Stret- 
ton.  "I  should  love  to  hear  you  both  discussing  the 
problems  of  life  like  two  philosophers.  'Out  of  the 
mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings ' ' 

"You  forget  that  I  am  thirty,"  said  Alicia,  smiling. 

"Thirty!"  said  Stretton.  "What  does  that  matter? 
You  know  nothing  of  the  world  or  of  life.  I  am  a 
hundred  and  fifty  and  old  enough  to  be  your  great- 
grandfather." 

"No  doubt  I  seem  very  stupid  to  you,"  said  Alicia 
with  genuine  humility.  "You  have  seen  and  done  so 
much." 

"Stupid!  I  wish  I  had  a  grain  of  your  wisdom  and 
goodness." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  wise  or  good.  I  just  drift  about  like 
a  rudderless  boat.  I  want  some  one  to  take  the  helm 
and  to  steer  me  into  the  right  channel." 

"Do  you?"  said  Stretton,  looking  into  her  eyes.  "Do 
you?" 

They  had  arrived  at  the  school-house  gate.  The 
village  street  beyond  was  utterly  silent  and  not  a  light 
shone  in  the  cottage  windows.  Long  Stretton  was 
asleep. 

Stretton  shivered. 

"It  is  cold  now,"  he  said.  "I  feel  chilled  to  the 
marrow." 

"I  hope  you  have  not  caught  cold,"  said  Alicia 
anxiously. 


84  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"I  can  feel  a  touch  of  the  old  fever,"  said  Stretton. 
"I  suppose  it  was  those  mists  on  the  hills.  Something 
hot  to  drink  would  do  me  good.  No  chance  of  that  at 
the  Hall  till  eight  o'clock  to-morrow  morning!" 

Alicia  hesitated. 

"I  could  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  or  cocoa,"  she  said. 
"I  have  a  little  stove  which  boils  a  kettle  very  quickly." 

"I  say!  That  would  be  splendid.  But  what  would 
your  maid  say?" 

"Oh,  my  little  maid  doesn't  sleep  here  at  nights.  She 
comes  in  at  seven  to  light  the  fire,  and  leaves  at  twelve." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  sleep  here  alone?" 

"Yes,  why  not?" 

"It's  very  plucky  of  you." 

Alicia  laughed. 

"I  am  not  such  a  baby  as  you  think." 


CHAPTER  IX 

STRETTON  accepted  the  invitation  to  midnight  tea, 
though  not  without  a  mental  struggle  of  some  violence. 
He  felt  he  was  drifting  along  a  dangerous  current  with 
this  girl.  What  was  to  be  their  port?  or  would  there 
be  a  shipwreck?  He  did  not  want  to  hurt  this  woman's 
soul.  All  that  was  best  in  him  was  touched  by  her 
chaste  virtue  and  by  her  simplicity.  He  knew,  as  even 
devils  must  know  if  there  be  any,  that  he  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  noble  soul.  If  another  woman  had  in- 
vited him  into  her  lonely  house  at  midnight,  he  would 
have  accepted,  or  refused,  with  a  light  laugh.  But 
now  he  accepted  with  anxiety  and  self-questioning.  He 
had  given  her  a  kiss,  and  she  had  surrendered  without 
a  protest.  Yet  it  was  not  the  surrender  of  a  light 
woman  or  a  frivolous  one.  She  had  blushed,  but  she 
had  not  been  ashamed.  She  would  have  let  him  kiss  her 
in  the  market-place  as  on  the  hill-top.  He  was  sure  of 
that,  and  this  candour,  this  lack  of  secrecy  and  self- 
consciousness,  made  him  afraid.  Because,  of  course, 
he  could  not  kiss  her  in  the  market-place.  He  could 
not  afford  to  let  the  world  see  him  with  this  woman.  He 
had  gone  too  far  already.  That  kiss  counted  more  with 
her  than  with  him.  To  him  it  had  been  stolen  fruit, 
infinitely  sweet,  a  moment  to  remember.  To  her  it  was 

85 


86  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

the  seal  of  a  bargain  by  which  she  had  handed  over  her 
heart  to  him.  He  could  not  fail  to  see  that,  being  quick 
of  imagination  and  of  a  subtle  instinct.  No  conven- 
tional words  of  love-making  had  passed  between  them, 
but  Stretton  understood  that  Alicia  accepted  him  as  her 
lover.  And  he  needed  love.  He  needed  the  inspiration, 
the  intimacy  of  womanhood.  Like  all  men  of  imagina- 
tion he  felt  that  life  was  a  barren  thing  without  it,  and 
yet  he  must  have  liberty  as  well  as  love.  Not  now  at 
this  turn  of  his  life  could  he  afford  to  fetter  himself. 

But  it  was  delightful  to  sit  in  her  little  room — such 
a  quaint  and  dainty  place  with  its  low  ceiling  and  pol- 
ished floor,  its  little  white  curtains  and  rush-bottomed 
chairs — while  Alicia  lit  the  lamp  on  the  gate-legged 
table,  and  took  the  tea-things  from  the  small  oak  side- 
board in  the  corner.  A  vase  full  of  roses  was  on  the 
table,  and  the  room  smelt  sweet  with  them.  On  the 
mantel-board  was  a  portrait  of  an  elderly  man  with  a 
white  beard — her  father,  thought  Stretton — and  photo- 
graphs of  small  children  on  either  side  of  a  travelling 
clock  which  ticked  noisily  and  jerkily,  its  hands  point- 
ing to  an  hour  past  midnight.  On  the  hearth-rug  as 
they  had  gone  in  a  black  kitten  lay  sleeping,  but  now 
it  followed  Alicia  about,  purring  loudly  with  its  tail 
erect.  On  the  table  the  book  which  Alicia  had  been 
reading  when  Stretton  had  called  to  her  from  the  gar- 
den lay  opened  with  a  pressed  flower  between  the  leaves 
to  mark  the  place.  Stretton  saw  with  a  glance  that  it 
was  his  last  novel — A  Social  Atom — and  the  sight  of  it 
gave  him  more  pleasure  than  when  the  first  copy  had 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  87 

reached  him  from  the  printers.  There  were  other 
books  about  the  room  on  a  set  of  home-made  book- 
shelves fastened  to  the  wall  with  cords.  When  Alicia 
went  into  the  small  kitchen  to  light  the  stove,  Stretton 
examined  the  volumes,  as  he  always  did  instinctively 
when  left  alone  in  a  room  with  any  books  about.  His 
eyes  roamed  along  the  titles — Macaulay's  History, 
Green's  Short  History  of  the  English  People,  Huxley's 
Essays,  Matthew  Arnold's  Literature  and  Dogma, 
Lewis's  History  and  Philosophy,  Mill's  Logic,  Manuals 
of  Socialism  by  Karl  Marx,  six  volumes  of  the  Philos- 
ophie  Positive  by  Comte,  Balzac's  novels,  Rousseau's 
Confessions,  Kipling's  Plain  Tales,  Jungle  Books,  and 
Departmental  Ditties,  a  few  new  novels  and  a  number 
of  children's  books  and  primers. 

"Well,  I'm  blessed!"  said  Stretton  to  himself.  This 
was  certainly  a  queer  set  of  books  to  find  in  the  parlour 
of  a  village  schoolmistress.  They  would  not  have  been 
out  of  keeping  with  the  character  of  an  elderly  blue- 
stocking with  a  pinched  face  and  spectacles,  but  Alicia 
was  so  sweet  and  so  curiously  simple,  so  child-like, 
almost,  in  her  gay  moods.  She  was  merry  now,  enjoy- 
ing the  midnight  meal  with  its  sense  of  adventure. 

"I  cannot  give  cake  and  goodies  to  unexpected 
guests,"  she  said,  spreading  a  dainty  white  cloth  before 
Stretton  and  laying  the  tea-things.  "Bread  and  butter 
must  be  your  fare,  sir." 

"Dear  lady,"  said  Stretton,  "I  ask  nothing  better 
from  your  hands.  I  feel  like  a  knight-errant  in  the 
castle  of  an  enchanted  princess.  Surely  in  a  minute 


88  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

that  cat  will  change  into  a  witch,  and  I  shall  be  turned 
into  stone  for  daring  to  intrude  like  this." 

"Brave  knight,"  said  Alicia,  pouring  out  two  cups 
of  tea,  "fear  nothing.  It  is  true  that  Peterkin  is  not 
what  he  appears  to  be.  His  wisdom  is  profound,  but 
he  is  also  virtuous.  I  think  in  former  life  his  spirit 
must  have  inhabited  the  body  of  a  philosopher." 

"Now  you  speak  of  it  I  do  see  a  resemblance  to 
Herbert  Spencer,"  said  Stretton.  "I  am  reassured. 
But  surely  there  is  a  dragon  lying  in  wait  outside.  No 
knight  receives  hospitality  like  this  without  having  to 
pay  his  way  by  some  heroic  exploit.  Let  me  prove  my 
prowess,  Princess." 

"Prove  it  on  this  crust  of  bread,"  said  Alicia.  "You 
are  eating  nothing." 

And  so  they  talked  fairy  tales  to  each  other  like 
two  children  who  have  taken  their  lunch  into  a  dim 
barn  or  into  the  loft  above  a  nursery.  They  sat  oppo- 
site to  each  other  at  the  little  table,  yet  not  so  far  away 
that  Stretton  could  not  touch  Alicia's  hand  as  it  lay  for 
a  moment  on  the  cloth.  He  put  his  own  upon  it  caress- 
ingly, and  she  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  but  smiled  a 
little  about  the  lips  as  he  went  on  chatting. 

"It  is  good  to  be  here,"  said  Stretton.  "Just  you 
and  me  together  in  this  little  room  with  the  world  asleep 
outside.  I  shall  be  sorry  when  I  go  into  the  darkness 
alone." 

"Loneliness  is  a  horrid  thing,"  said  Alicia. 

"I  have  been  too  much  alone.    Have  you  ever  felt 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  89 

a  dread  of  yourself  when  you  have  realised  your  lone- 
liness?" 

"Yes,  often.  Sometimes  when  I  have  been  read- 
ing here  at  night  I  have  suddenly  started  with  terror 
at  the  silence  and  solitude,  and  have  been  possessed 
with  a  fear  of  my  own  soul.  It  is  like  being  alone  in 
eternity." 

"I  know  that  feeling,"  said  Stretton.  "It  has  come 
on  me  in  tropical  forests/' 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  think  anything  is  so  lonely  as  a 
house  in  which  one  is  the  only  living  being — that  is 
why  I  adopted  Peterkin.  He  keeps  away  the  devil  that 
seems  to  torment  a  lonely  person.  You  will  always  find 
an  old  maid  with  a  cat." 

"Old  maid!"  said  Stretton,  smiling.  "Come,  come, 
that  is  not  your  fate." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Alicia,  and  her  lips  trembled  a 
little  as  she  looked  smilingly  into  Stretton's  eyes. 

"It  shan't  be,"  said  Stretton.    "I  will  see  to  that." 

He  took  her  hand  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"We  will  keep  each  other  company,"  he  said,  "we 
two  lonely  mortals." 

"Oh,  I  should  be  no  company  for  you,"  said  Alicia. 
"I  am  so  stupid,  so  ignorant!"  But  then,  before  he 
could  utter  the  protest  on  his  lips,  she  said  eagerly, 
taking  both  his  hands  in  hers  and  clasping  them  to- 
gether— 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Stretton?  Do  you  want  me  to 
keep  you  company  in  your  life?" 


90  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"I  cannot  do  without  you,"  said  Stretton.  "Surely, 
surely  you  have  seen  that." 

There  was  a  passionate  vibration  in  his  voice  that 
startled  himself.  He  was  sincere.  By  Jove,  yes!  He 
could  not  do  without  Alicia  now.  This  hour  in  her 
room,  this  intimacy  with  her  in  the  night,  their  simple- 
fanciful  talk  like  that  of  children,  innocent  and  sweet, 
the  beauty  and  grace  and  goodness  of  the  woman  which 
made  the  room  fragrant  with  her  presence,  had  over- 
powered his  intellectual  caution  and  thrilled  his  senses 
and  his  imagination. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  said  Alicia.    "I  am  so  glad." 

She  came  to  him  and,  sitting  on  the  floor  by  his  side, 
put  her  head  upon  his  knees  with  her  arms  around  him. 
She  was  crying  a  little,  but  when  Stretton  kissed  her 
hair  and  lifted  up  her  face  with  both  his  hands,  she 
smiled  with  a  happiness  in  her  eyes  that  made  her 
strangely  beautiful. 

For  another  hour  they  talked  to  each  other  in  low 
voices.  She  told  Stretton  of  her  former  life,  of  her 
desire  for  love,  of  her  craving  for  an  experience  of  life 
wider  and  larger  than  she  could  get  as  the  mistress  of 
a  village  school.  She  said  how  good  his  aunts  had 
been  to  her,  and  how  happy  she  had  been  with  the 
school  children,  and  with  the  village  people,  in  spite  of 
her  occasional  despondency,  of  her  growing  feeling  of 
being  alone  in  life,  and  of  her  longing  for  other  things. 
And  Stretton  talked  of  his  former  days,  of  his  wander- 
ings, his  rather  aimless  ambitions.  But  he  was  going 
to  work  now  for  a  definite  object.  He  believed  he  had 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  91 

the  gifts  for  a  political  career.  He  was  going  to  break 
from  his  family  traditions  by  championing  the  people's 
cause.  He  expected  to  have  a  big  fight  at  the  Election, 
and  looked  forward  to  the  fray.  If  he  got  in  he  would 
become  one  of  the  leaders  of  labour,  though  he  would 
take  an  independent  line.  Some  of  his  college  chums, 
Lord  Wallingford  and  Arthur  Champerdowne  and  Lord 
Ronald  Campbell,  were  standing  also  for  Labour  seats, 
and  they  expected  to  form  an  independent  party  of 
Constitutional  democrats  or  "Individualists,"  who 
would  hold  the  balance  between  the  Conservatives  and 
the  extreme  Socialists. 

The  hours  passed  quickly,  like  a  few  moments  so  it 
seemed  to  them,  but  when  the  clock  struck  three  Alicia 
got  up  from  the  floor  with  a  word  of  surprise. 

"Look!"  she  said,  "it  is  almost  dawn.  The  light  is 
beginning  to  creep  in.  You  must  go  hon^e,  Stretton,  or 
your  aunts  will  hear  of  your  mysterious  disappearance. 
They  would  be  dreadfully  alarmed." 

"By  Jove,  yes!"  said  Stretton.  "The  servants  are 
early  risers,  too." 

Alicia  opened  the  front  door  and  the  fresh  air  of  the 
dawn  came  in,  cool,  and  exquisite  in  its  fragrance. 

"It  will  be  a  glorious  day,"  said  Alicia. 

"It  has  been  a  glorious  night,"  said  Stretton. 

He  took  Alicia's  hands  and  drew  her  towards  him, 
kissing  her  upon  the  lips.  Then  without  a  word  he 
stepped  out  into  the  road,  and  turning  once  to  smile  at 
her  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  he  walked  quickly 
towards  Stretton  Hall. 


92  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Once  he  got  into  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  like  a  man 
of  guilt,  as  a  farm  laborer  trudged  past  in  the  dim 
light  of  the  early  morning.  Afterwards  he  entered  the 
garden  of  his  aunts'  house  by  the  postern  gate,  and 
crept  upstairs  to  his  bedroom  by  the  side  stairs.  An 
ugly  creak  on  the  first  landing  jangled  his  nerves,  and 
he  stood  listening  with  drawn  breath  and  thumping 
heart.  But  the  Hall  was  silent  and  asleep,  and  he  got 
to  his  room  without  disturbing  his  aunts  or  the  ser- 
vants. He  flung  himself  on  to  the  bed  with  his  clothes 
on,  and  for  an  hour  or  more  lay  awake  thinking 
over  what  had  happened  in  the  night.  Then  as  the 
early  sun  streamed  into  his  room  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  X 

BETWEEN  Jonathan  Heath  and  his  son  David  there 
was  a  great  love.  It  is  not  so  common  a  thing  as  is 
generally  taken  for  granted — the  love  between  parents 
and  children.  More  often  than  not  there  is  an  invisible 
but  impassable  wall  between  a  father  and  his  sons, 
often  even  between  a  mother  and  her  daughters.  They 
dwell  in  different  worlds  though  the  same  house  con- 
tains them.  The  father  is  absorbed  in  his  business, 
his  principles  are  fixed,  his  ambitions  satisfied  or  dis- 
appointed. The  mother  watches  her  children  grow, 
feeds  and  clothes  them,  and  nurses  them,  and  then 
one  day  realises  that  they  no  longer  need  her,  that 
they  are  anxious  indeed  for  independence  and  liberty 
outside  her  love.  The  sons  are  the  first  to  claim  this 
liberty.  The  wisdom  of  their  father  is  not  their  wis- 
dom; his  way  of  life  not  their  way.  Often  enough  the 
father  of  a  family  is  lonely,  understanding  little  of  what 
is  in  the  secret  hearts  of  his  offspring,  and  unable  to 
share  their  thoughts.  He  is  astonished,  wounded 
(though  he  hides  his  wound)  by  the  selfishness  and  in- 
gratitude of  youth.  After  they  have  tugged  against 
his  discipline,  after  their  long  stress  and  fretting  against 
his  authority,  he  is  not  loth  to  let  them  go  so  that  he 
may  be  at  peace  with  their  mother  again,  as  in  the 

93 


94  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

early  days  before  they  were  begotten.  It  is  the  mother 
who  yearns,  and  sheds  secret  tears,  when,  one  by  one, 
the  boys  and  girls  depart.  It  is  the  almost  inevitable 
tragedy  of  motherhood. 

With  Jonathan  and  David  it  was  different.  The 
blacksmith's  wife  had  died  when  the  boy  was  still  a 
child,  leaving  her  husband  with  a  sore  place  in  his 
heart  that  had  never  healed,  even  in  fifteen  years  of 
silent  grief.  A  man  may  think  while  he  is  hammering 
hot  iron,  and  while  Jonathan  was  swinging  his  hammer 
and  blowing  the  bellows  by  his  forge  the  spirit  of  his 
wife  whom  he  had  loved  with  the  whole  strength  of  his 
soul  and  body — both  body  and  soul  were  strong  and 
sturdy — was  often  about  him,  enveloping  him,  as  it 
were,  with  her  presence.  He  was  a  religious  man,  and 
the  prayer  which  he  prayed  as  he  worked  seemed  to 
bring  his  dead  wife  close  to  him. 

After  her  going  there  were  many  in  Long  Stretton 
who  urged  him  to  marry  again  for  the  boy's  sake. 
But  he  shook  his  head — at  first  he  had  shaken  his  fist 
and  sworn  violently  that  he  would  beat  any  one  who 
dared  to  say  this  thing — and  made  it  known  that 
he  would  rather  the  boy  died  than  that  he  himself 
should  dishonour  his  late  wife  by  taking  another  woman 
to  her  bed.  But  David  did  not  suffer  as  most  boys 
might  have  done  from  the  loss  of  a  mother  whom  he 
remembered  as  a  dream  that  sometimes  caused  him  to 
cry  out  at  nights  in  an  anguish  of  yearning.  Jonathan 
was  both  mother  and  father  to  him.  He  would  not 
even  let  a  woman  come  near  the  cottage — but  washed 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  95 

the  small  boy  himself,  put  him  to  bed  at  night,  and 
twice  a  day,  when  it  was  fine,  carried  him  for  long 
lonely  walks  on  the  hills.  When  he  was  not  sleeping 
or  out  of  doors,  the  four-year-old  boy  played  on  the 
floor  of  the  blacksmith's  shed,  finding  the  iron  hoops 
and  horseshoes,  the  tools  and  rubbish  of  the  shop,  most 
excellent  and  entertaining  playthings.  He  loved  the 
music  of  the  anvil,  and  was  never  tired  of  watching  his 
father  at  work.  People  of  Long  Stretton  used  to  go 
out  of  their  way  to  pass  the  blacksmith's  shed  and 
watch  young  David  sitting  with  his  dark  curls  tousled, 
with  his  knees  tucked  up  and  his  chin  resting  on  them, 
staring  with  serious  eyes  at  his  father,  who  was  making 
the  anvil  ring  with  a  melody  that  could  be  heard  up  on 
the  Downs,  and  was  a  cheerful  and  harmonious  accom- 
paniment to  the  other  sounds  of  village  life — the  clack- 
ing of  the  mill-wheel,  the  lowing  of  the  cattle,  the  bleat- 
ing of  the  flocks,  the  rhythmic  beating  in  the  tanyards. 
Then  when  the  time  came  when  David  went  to  school, 
Jonathan  took  him  to  and  fro  on  fine  days  and  wet,  in 
sleet  and  rain  and  snow,  changing  his  boots  and  clothes 
when  he  got  damp  with  the  solicitude  that  could  not 
have  been  greater  in  a  mother. 

When  David  had  learned  to  read  the  father  shared 
in  the  boy's  delight  in  the  story-books  that  were  bor- 
rowed from  the  school  library.  The  favourite  of  these 
at  first  were  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales  and  the  Arabian 
Nights.  After  dusk,  between  teatime  and  the  boy's 
bed,  Jonathan's  hammer  would  be  still,  and,  shutting 
the  door  of  the  shed,  the  father  would  bring  out  his 


96  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

pipe,  and  smoke  quietly  while  David  read  out  the  old 
tales,  which  at  last  became  so  familiar  that  they  both 
knew  them  almost  word  for  word.  Yet  still  they  did 
not  tire  of  them.  Jonathan  was  a  simple-minded  and 
unlettered  man,  and  he  was  as  genuinely  interested  in 
and  excited  by  the  adventures  of  Tom  Thumb  or  of 
Ali  Baba  as  David  himself. 

"My  word!"  he  would  say,  pulling  out  his  pipe  and 
puffing  out  a  wreath  of  smoke.  "He  was  a  plucked  un, 
an'  no  mistake.  That  robbers'  cave  was  a  skeery  place, 
Davy!  What  comes  next,  my  lad?" 

Robinson  Crusoe  was  another  book  that  enchanted 
these  two  scholars  of  the  village.  David  was  fourteen 
years  of  age  when  he  brought  it  home.  As  a  rule, 
Jonathan  called  "Lights  out,  Davy"  when  the  church 
clock  struck  nine.  But  on  that  night,  when  Robinson 
Crusoe  was  begun,  they  were  both  too  absorbed  in  the 
adventures  and  sorrows  of  the  shipwrecked  mariner  to 
notice  the  passing  of  the  hours.  David  read  on  and  on, 
until  the  fire  died  down,  and  Jonathan  puffed  at  a  pipe 
that  had  long  gone  out.  Now  and  again  the  father  and 
son  interrupted  the  reading  for  a  few  words  of  com- 
ment. Robinson's  pious  reflections  appealed  to  Jona- 
than's Puritanism. 

"Ah,  he  was  a  good  man,  was  Robinson.  Doan't 
you  forget,  Davy,  as  he  was  held  up  by  the  love  of 
God.  I  reckon  he'd  have  gone  daft  but  for  that.  It's 
fine  to  think  of  that  lonely  soul  going  down  on  his 
knees  out  in  the  open,  the  same  as  if  he  was  in  church, 
and  praising  the  Lord  for  all  His  mercies." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  97 

"But,  father,"  said  David,  "it's  a  wonder  God  didn't 
save  him  from  being  shipwrecked.  I  don't  see  why  God 
should  suffer  such  things  at  all." 

"There  are  but  few  of  us  as  have  any  trust  in  the 
Lord,"  said  Jonathan.  "That's  what  it  comes  to.  Even 
Peter  came  precious  near  to  drowning,  though  the  Lord 
was  at  hand." 

The  birds  were  beginning  to  chirrup  in  the  early 
dawn  when  at  last  David  drowsed  over  his  book,  and 
Jonathan  got  up  with  a  startled  look. 

"  'Pon  my  soul,"  he  cried,  "we've  forgotten  the  clock 
this  time!  Why,  the  hours  have  gone  by  like  minutes! 
That's  what  comes  o'  reading." 

He  was  seriously  disturbed  by  the  extraordinary 
accident,  and  during  the  next  day  rebuked  himself  for 
a  carelessness  with  regard  to  David  which  would  never 
have  happened  if  the  boy's  mother  had  been  alive. 

The  school  library  took  about  two  years  to  exhaust, 
and  then  it  was  necessary  to  make  a  journey  once  a 
week  to  the  town  of  Castlebridge,  where  there  was  a 
good  lending  library.  This  six-mile  walk  of  Jonathan 
and  David  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  was  a  weekly  joy. 
It  was  David  who  always  chose  the  book,  but  his  father 
never  quarrelled  with  his  choice,  having  a  perfect  faith 
in  Davy's  judgment.  The  old  Vicar,  Cartwright's 
predecessor,  had  now  taken  the  boy  in  hand,  after  he 
had  left  the  village  school,  and  in  an  easy-going  way 
superintended  his  studies.  So  after  roaming  through 
the  library  of  adventure  from  Hakluyt's  Voyages  to 
Stanley's  Darkest  Africa,  David  found  his  way  into 


98  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

more  difficult  paths,  and  brought  home  such  books  as 
Carlyle's  French  Revolution,  John  Richard  Green's 
History  of  England  and  Plutarch's  Lives,  Then  he  had 
been  seized  with  a  passion  for  novel  reading,  and 
father  and  son  went  straight  through  the  best  works  of 
Scott,  Dickens,  and  George  Eliot.  Jonathan  was  en- 
thralled most  by  Adam  Bede.  In  the  character  of 
Adam  he  recognised  something  of  himself,  perhaps,  and 
he  chuckled  prodigiously  over  the  humours  of  Mrs. 
Poyser,  whom  he  found  to  resemble  the  landlady  of  the 
"Wingfield  Arms." 

So  the  years  had  passed  till  David  was  no  longer  a 
boy,  but  a  young  man,  taller,  ay,  and  stronger,  than 
his  father.  Jonathan  had  taken  care  of  his  body, 
knowing  that  in  this  regard  he  had  no  need  of  advice 
from  the  Vicar  or  village  schoolmaster  or  other  learned 
folk.  When  David  was  five  years  of  age  he  had  made 
him  a  little  hammer  and  taught  him  to  swing  it  with 
regularity  and  rhythm.  Every  night  he  felt  the  lad's 
muscles,  and  glowed  with  pride  as  they  developed  with 
his  growth. 

"You'll  be  a  strong  man  some  o'  these  days,  Davy; 
strong  an'  straight,  I'll  warrant." 

And  true  enough,  at  eighteen  David  could  handle  his 
father's  heaviest  hammer,  and  could  beat  out  a  horse- 
shoe into  as  clear  and  well-turned  a  thing  as  any  black- 
smith in  the  countryside.  There  was  health  in  every 
fibre  of  his  body,  and  in  his  brain,  too,  for  all  his  read- 
ing. Father  and  son  had  gone  birds'-nesting  together 
and  blackberrying.  They  had  explored  the  hills  and 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  99 

valleys  for  miles  around  on  long  walks,  with  a  hearty 
meal  at  each  journey's  end;  they  had  bathed  every  sum- 
mer morning  in  the  river  that  went  sluggishly  through 
the  meadows  at  the  bottom  of  their  lane,  and  Jonathan 
and  David  were  the  names  that  had  been  cut  into  the 
bark  of  many  trees  in  the  deepest  woods. 

So,  when  Alicia  had  come  to  Long  Stretton  as  mis- 
tress of  the  village  school,  David  Heath,  the  black- 
smith's son,  was  a  young  man  distinguished  from  his 
fellows  both  in  brain  and  body.  There  were  other  lads 
of  the  village  who  had  health  and  strength,  but  none 
had  David's  inches — six  feet  two  in  his  stockinged  feet 
— or  anything  like  his  great  shoulders  and  straight 
back,  his  strong,  rugged  young  face,  refined  and  spirit- 
ualised by  thoughts  and  emotions  taken  from  many 
books.  Alicia  had  been  drawn  to  him  at  once  since  her 
first  meeting  with  him  in  the  old  Vicar's  study,  and  the 
loneliness  of  her  first  year  in  Long  Stretton  had  been 
made  much  less  lonely  by  the  evenings  she  spent  in  the 
blacksmith's  shed  with  the  father  and  son.  To  both  of 
them  her  coming  to  Long  Stretton  was  a  strange  and 
excellent  thing,  and  her  friendship  was  a  revelation  to 
them.  She  had  read  and  thought  so  much.  Her  ideas 
were  so  fresh  and  strong,  and  so  candidly  expressed. 
Jonathan  was  startled  and  often  shocked  by  her  plain 
speech  about  the  problems  of  life  and  by  her  uncon- 
ventional, lawless,  and  even  godless  views,  as  he 
thought,  about  religion  and  morality.  They  had  battles 
royal  in  the  dim  shed  at  night,  upon  such  subjects  as 
free  will  and  the  divine  inspiration  of  the  old  Testa- 


100  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

merit,  authority  versus  private  judgment,  religion  and 
ethics,  and  other  subjects  not  usually  discussed  in 
blacksmiths'  sheds. 

The  sweat  often  poured  down  Jonathan's  brow,  and 
he  mopped  it  with  a  big  handkerchief,  in  the  beginning 
of  this  friendship  with  Alicia.  He  was  no  match  for  her 
in  argument,  not  being  learned  in  books,  and  he  could 
only  fall  back  upon  his  simple  faith  and  sturdy  alle- 
giance to  the  Church  Catechism. 

"That's  a  very  dangerous  young  'ooman,  Davy," 
he  said  often  when  she  went  back  to  the  school-house. 
"I'm  afeard  she'll  be  led  into  trouble  one  of  these  days. 
She  would  argue  the  hoof  off  of  Satan's  leg.  Pray  God 
she  don't  unsettle  you,  my  lad." 

But  David  laughed  at  his  father's  fears  in  this  direc- 
tion. 

"Miss  Alicia  is  real  gold,"  he  said,  "whatever  her 
opinions  may  be." 

"Ay,  she's  a  nimble  creature,  and  the  lady  born," 
said  Jonathan. 

Secretly,  sturdy  democrat  as  he  was,  he  was  flattered 
at  receiving  the  visits  of  a  young  lady  in  whom  he 
recognised,  as  English  peasants  do,  unfailingly,  the 
refinement  that  belongs  to  the  true  "quality."  And 
Alicia's  gaiety,  her  wide  reading,  her  vivacity  of  ex- 
pression brought  a  new  atmosphere  and  a  new  life  into 
his  workshop.  Gradually  he  built  up  a  romance,  and 
would  lie  awake  at  nights  like  any  mother  think- 
ing that  perhaps  one  day  there  would  be  "a  match" 
between  his  son  and  this  young  woman.  He  encouraged 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  101 

their  growing  intimacy,  and  when  the  Latin  lessons  be- 
gan he  regarded  them  as  a  new  step  towards  the  domes- 
tic joy  which  would  one  day,  he  hoped,  enter  the  house- 
hold of  his  declining  years.  He  saw,  though  he  said 
nothing,  that  David  had  a  boyish  love  for  Alicia,  which 
would  one  day  ripen  into  real  passion.  That  was  the 
first  secret  between  father  and  son,  though  only  half  a 
secret.  David  hugged  to  himself  the  new  glory  that 
had  come  to  him,  though  it  was  difficult,  living  alone 
with  his  father,  to  hide  the  emotion  that  exalted  him 
above  the  commonplace  of  life.  Alicia  was  quite  un- 
conscious of  his  feelings  towards  her.  In  her  simple 
way  she  mothered  him.  Often  she  would  put  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  little  knowing  how  he  thrilled  to  her 
touch.  In  the  evenings  when  they  sat  talking  she  would 
sit  on  the  floor  with  her  head  resting  against  his  chair, 
or  against  his  knee,  not  guessing  that  he  prayed  God 
she  would  not  move  into  another  position  further  away 
from  him.  She  mended  his  socks  and  he  kissed  them 
as  if  they  had  been  sacred  things.  This  boyish  senti- 
ment had  quickly  steadied  down  into  a  quieter  and 
stronger  way  of  love.  David  was  a  healthy,  strong- 
minded  fellow,  and  did  not  give  rein  to  fond  imaginings 
after  the  first  mysterious  awakening  of  his  young  man- 
hood. And  Alicia  was  so  practical,  so  motherly,  so 
utterly  unconscious  of  any  sentimental  emotion  in  him 
that  he  had  stifled  this  side  of  his  nature  as  something 
unworthy  of  her  splendid  gift  of  friendship. 
But  when  the  old  Vicar,  who  had  been  a  good  friend 


102  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

to  him,  died  suddenly  and  peacefully,  like  an  old  man 
who  falls  into  a  happy  sleep,  leaving  him  a  little  legacy 
that  he  might  go  to  Oxford,  David  had  welcomed  this 
chance  of  his  life  with  intense  and  passionate  pleasure 
— though  he  was  characteristically  quiet  and  reserved 
in  the  expression  of  his  emotion.  He  welcomed  it  as  a 
step  up  the  social  ladder  by  which  he  would  get  closer  to 
Alicia.  She  was  so  far  above  him  now,  but  one  day, 
perhaps,  if  he  worked  hard  and  well,  he  might  be  less 
unworthy  to  declare  the  great  love  in  his  heart. 

She  had  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  when  he  went, 
on  the  same  spot  where  Jonathan  had  also  kissed  his 
son,  and  he  had  gone  from  her  and  from  his  father  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  of  which  he  was  not  ashamed.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  left  home,  though  he  was  now 
twenty,  and  it  had  cost  him  not  a  little  to  tear  up  his 
roots.  For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  even  he  realised 
the  true  meaning  of  his  father's  love,  and  as  at  the 
carriage  window  at  Castlebridge,  Jonathan  had  crushed 
his  hand  in  an  iron  grip  and  whispered  "God  bless 
you,  laddie,"  there  was  a  hard  lump  in  David's  throat 
that  prevented  speech.  But  the  last  thing  he  had  seen 
when  the  train  went  off  with  him  to  London  was  Alicia 
smiling  and  waving,  and  that  was  the  vision,  that  coun- 
teracted the  first  feeling  of  loneliness  and  home-sickness 
which  threatened  to  overwhelm  him.  Alicia,  whom  he 
had  known  a  year,  was  more  in  his  thoughts  than  his 
father  who  had  been  his  friend  for  twenty  years.  .  .  . 

During  the  three  years  at  Oxford  David  had  written 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  103 

home  once  a  week  to  his  father  and  once  a  month  to 
Alicia.  To  Jonathan  that  weekly  letter  had  been  the 
very  thing  that  made  life  worth  living.  Though  he 
did  not  wear  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  and  did  not  let  his 
neighbours  see  how  much  the  separation  from  his  son 
meant  to  him,  his  heavy  hand  always  trembled  when 
the  village  postman  gave  him  his  weekly  budget. 

"Good  news  from  Oxford,  I  do  hope,  Jonathan?" 

"Ay,  Davy's  a  good  lad.  He'll  not  forget  his 
feyther." 

With  strange  self-discipline  the  blacksmith  would  not 
open  the  letter  till  the  evening  when  his  day's  work 
was  done.  Then  he  would  read  it  over  slowly,  study- 
ing every  word  and  phrase  of  it,  and  turning  from  the 
last  sheet  to  the  first  to  read  it  again.  They  were  long 
letters  telling  every  detail  of  his  daily  life — a  wonderful 
Vita  Nuova  for  a  blacksmith's  son,  and  Jonathan  him- 
self lived  spiritually  more  in  Oxford  than  at  Long 
Stretton,  and  as  he  hammered  at  a  horseshoe  he  would 
imagine  what  David  was  doing  at  that  precise  hour  of 
the  clock. 

Alicia's  monthly  letters  were  of  a  different  character. 
They  dealt  not  with  details  so  much  as  with  ideas,  and 
in  them  from  month  to  month  she  could  trace  the  evolu- 
tion of  David's  mind,  from  crudity  to  a  real  culture, 
from  vague  youthful  wanderings  in  fresh  fields  of 
thought  to  more  fixed  and  manly  convictions,  from  rash 
judgments,  hasty  prejudices,  quick  enthusiasm,  to  a 
wiser  doubtfulness,  a  broader  tolerance,  a  greater  cau- 


104  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

tion.  She  wrote  back,  answering  and  discussing  the 
problems  he  had  raised,  in  her  usually  motherly  way, 
imagining  herself  ever  so  much  his  senior.  She  gave 
him  advice,  warned  him  against  taking  himsdf  and  life 
seriously,  urged  him  to  keep  his  freedom,  to  develop  his 
individuality.  Once  he  wrote  to  her,  "I  shall  never  be 
individual.  I  am  your  intellectual  offspring."  And 
she  had  written  back  at  once  and  angrily,  "If  you  say 
such  stupid  things  I  will  never  write  to  you  again."  In 
spite  of  his  long  letters  and  their  revelations,  he  was 
never  candid  in  them,  because  never  once  did  his  pen 
write  the  words  which  would  have  told  the  inmost 
thoughts  that  moved  him.  Alicia  imagined  that  he  had 
set  out  in  quest  of  truth.  She  believed  that  he  had 
devoted  himself  to  knowledge  for  its  own  sake.  In 
truth,  it  was  not  so.  Oxford  would  have  been  a  hell 
to  him,  of  course,  if  he  had  not  loved  learning,  if  his 
imagination  had  not  caught  fire  in  her  old  halls.  But 
there  was  only  one  object  before  him,  to  raise  himself 
nearer  to  the  level  of  Alicia,  to  win  his  spurs,  as  it  were, 
that  he  might  go  to  her  not  as  common  clay.  The  first 
two  years  had  gone  quietly  and  patiently  with  him,  and 
in  the  vacations  he  had  come  home  to  Jonathan  and  had 
revived  his  old  intimacy  with  Alicia,  exactly  on  the 
same  footing  as  before.  But  in  the  third  year  he  had 
been  conscious  of  a  change  in  himself.  He  was  no 
longer  patient.  He  was  passionate,  with  a  strong  pas- 
sion that  was  physical  as  well  as  intellectual.  As  he 
neared  the  end  of  the  goal,  seeing  success,  he  trembled 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  105 

lest  this  should  be  of  no  avail  in  giving  him  the  prize 
of  that  success — Alicia  herself.  Her  quiet  motherly 
letters  plunged  him  often  into  despair  and  doubt. 
Would  he  ever  be  able  to  establish  a  different  relation- 
ship with  her?  Did  he  dare  to  hope  that  she  should  re- 
gard him  as  an  equal  instead  of  a  protege?  Sometimes 
he  cursed  the  fortune  that  had  lifted  him  above  the 
condition  of  his  birth.  If  he  had  followed  his  father  as 
the  village  blacksmith  he  might  still  have  worshipped, 
but  would  never  have  dreamt  of  equality.  Once  he 
had  written  to  her  a  letter  in  which  he  gave  free  rein 
to  his  emotion,  and  confessed  what  was  in  his  soul  re- 
garding her.  And  then  reading  it  over  with  a  growing 
feeling  of  terror  at  the  written  words,  he  had  torn  up 
the  closely-written  sheets  and  watched  them  burn. 
Once  also  in  his  rooms  he  had  had  a  vision  of  Alicia  in 
the  arms  of  a  man  that  was  not  himself.  He  had  been 
half  sleeping,  and  he  awoke  with  a  groan  that  was  al- 
most a  shout,  and  then  had  gulped  down  whisky  to  cure 
a  strange  feeling  of  sickness  and  faintness.  These 
moods  were  not  constant.  They  seized  him  only  at  in- 
tervals, between  which  he  took  his  part  in  Oxford  life, 
in  its  sport  as  well  as  in  its  work,  with  his  usual  strength 
of  purpose  whatever  might  be  on  hand.  And  now  here 
he  was  home  again  with  more  than  a  village  glory  on  his 
head — he  had  his  name  in  the  Honour  Lists — but  with 
humility  in  his  heart.  He  had  seen  Alicia  twice,  once  in 
the  afternoon  when  Stretton  Wingfield  had  interrupted 
them,  and  once  in  the  evening  of  the  following  day 


106  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

when  she  had  sat  listening  and  rather  silent,  for  an  hour 
that  had  brought  back  old  memories,  but  was  very 
short.  That  was  the  evening  of  the  night  when  Alicia 
had  gone  to  the  hill-top  with  Stretton,  and  David  did 
not  know,  when  he  woke  fresh  to  the  dawn,  that  his 
own  destiny  had  been  shaped  in  the  womb  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  Saturday  and  the  village  children  were  at 
play.  In  the  old  days — how  those  years  at  Oxford  had 
drawn  a  line  across  his  life! — David  used  to  go  to 
Alicia's  garden  on  Saturday  morning  to  mow  her  small 
lawn  and  work  with  her  among  the  flowers.  So  to-day, 
using  this  old  habit  as  an  excuse  for  a  visit,  he  found 
himself  at  her  gate. 

Alicia  was  with  her  roses.  She  had  on  her  garden 
gloves  and  wore  a  sun-bonnet.  As  David  came  in  she 
looked  up  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  and,  plucking 
a  rose,  held  it  out  to  him. 

"That  is  for  a  good  and  worthy  scholar,"  she  said, 
"who  is  also  a  gardener.  ...  I  knew  you  would  come." 

She  put  it  into  his  buttonhole  and  then  laid  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"It's  good  to  have  you  back,  David." 

"Did  you  miss  me,  then,  a  little?" 

David  looked  down  at  her,  and  he  was  tempted  by 
the  face  that  smiled  up  at  him.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Alicia  had  grown  in  beauty  since  he  had  been  away, 
since,  even,  he  had  seen  her  yesterday.  There  was  a 
soft  and  gleaming  light  in  her  eyes,  and  a  new  expres- 
sion, the  glamour  of  some  inward  joy,  upon  her  face. 
David,  whose  eyes  had  often  rested  long  upon  that 

107 


108  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

face,  so  that  by  its  lights  and  shadows  and  by  the 
lines  about  the  mouth  he  knew  whether  Alicia  were 
tired,  or  troubled,  or  peaceful,  or  gay,  saw  now  that 
some  mood  possessed  her  which  was  reflected  in  the 
pools  of  her  brown  eyes.  He  wondered  what  that  ex- 
pression meant,  and  his  heart  gave  a  sudden  leap  at  the 
thought  that  perhaps  it  was  because  of  his  home- 
coming. 

"I  missed  you  more  than  I  can  say.  We  were  always 
good  friends,  David,  you  and  I." 

Her  eyes  suddenly  moistened,  and  she  turned  away 
to  lift  a  drooping  rose.  David's  heart  gave  another 
leap.  Great  God!  then  he  had  not  deluded  himself  with 
stupid  hope!  He  was  prompted  to  take  her  hand,  in 
the  sight  of  the  village  over  the  gate,  and  to  say  some 
of  those  things  which  he  had  once  written  and  then  torn 
up.  But  a  butcher-boy  came  whistling  up  the  path  with 
half-a-pound  of  steak  in  a  basket  that  would  have  held 
a  joint,  and  he  was  worse  than  a  village. 

Alicia  herself  was  startled  by  the  tears  that  had  sud- 
denly filled  her  eyes.  She  could  not  explain  her  emo- 
tion, except  that  the  thought  of  David's  friendship 
brought  back  to  her  mind  how  blessed  she  was  among 
women.  For  now  she  not  only  had  David  as  a  friend, 
but  Stretton,  who  had  promised  her  more  than  friend- 
ship. She  had  not  yet  got  used  to  that  knowledge,  or 
rather  the  wonder  of  it  kept  throbbing  at  her  heart  so 
that  for  no  reason  she  would  have  cried  or  laughed,  and 
one  as  easily  as  the  other.  Indeed,  as  she  took  the 
raw  meat  from  the  basket,  after  drawing  off  a  glove, 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  109 

she  broke  into  gay  tremulous  laughter,  and  to  David 
watching  her  this  was  another  sign  of  some  unusual 
excitement,  and  a  question  knocked  at  the  door  of  his 
heart  for  an  answer.  For  though  he  had  often  heard 
Alicia  laugh  at  trivial  things,  she  did  not  laugh  at  noth- 
ing at  all — and  it  was  difficult  to  see  the  comedy  of  a 
piece  of  meat. 

Perhaps  she  saw  that  he  was  puzzled.  Meeting  his 
eyes  upon  her  she  suddenly  blushed.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  her  do  so  in  his  presence,  and  he 
coloured,  too,  with  a  sense  of  embarrassment  that  was 
new  to  him. 

"Come  inside,  David,"  she  said  nervously,  after  a 
silence  in  which  they  had  watched  the  butcher-boy  go 
out  of  the  gate,  gloriously,  with  the  empty  basket  as  a 
hat.  "There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  ask  you." 

He  followed  her  into  the  sitting-room  where  she  had 
sat  with  Stretton  until  the  dawn  of  that  very  morning. 
She  looked  at  the  chair  in  which  Stretton  had  sat,  and 
she  moved  it  on  one  side,  bringing  up  another  for 
David.  Then  she  took  a  seat  opposite  to  him  and  leant 
forward  with  her  arms  on  the  table. 

"What  is  the  next  chapter,  David?  You  have  done 
more  than  I  expected.  Now  what  are  you  going  to 
make  of  your  achievements?" 

"It  depends  on  you,"  said  David,  and  his  breath 
came  rather  quickly,  though  he  controlled  his  voice. 
All  his  instincts  prompted  him  now  to  confession,  yet 
he  was  horribly  afraid  of  himself,  of  the  woman  who 
held  his  life  in  her  hands.  In  the  room  where  he  had 


110  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

sat  night  after  night — it  seemed  not  many  yesterdays 
ago — learning  Latin  with  her,  it  was  as  if  again  he  was 
in  his  old  position  of  pupil  to  a  mistress.  She  was  still 
above  him  and  beyond  him. 

"On  me?" 

"On  your  advice,  I  mean,"  he  said,  hating  himself  for 
blunting  the  edge  of  his  first  words. 

"My  advice  is  simple,"  said  Alicia.  "Go  in  and  win. 
You  have  the  world  before  you." 

"The  world?"  said  David,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"It  has  no  need  of  me." 

"There  is  only  one  goal  for  you — London.  When 
are  you  going,  and  what  will  you  do?  Aim  at  some- 
thing big,  David ! " 

She  spoke  in  her  old  serious  straightforward  way. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  shan't  stay  here.  I  can  make 
pretty  good  horseshoes  and  average  ploughshares." 

"David!"  she  cried  out  at  him. 

"I  mean  it.  After  all,  I  might  do  worse  than  follow 
in  my  father's  footsteps.  I  should  make  a  harmonious 
blacksmith." 

"You  must  hammer  at  other  things  than  horse- 
shoes," said  Alicia.  "We  have  no  room  for  you  in 
this  village." 

"Seriously,  I  am  thinking  of  my  father.  He  has 
spared  me  for  these  years,  but  you  know  how  it  is 
between  us.  I  should  hate  to  stride  away  to  selfish 
ambition,  and  leave  him  to  grow  old  alone." 

"You  say  'seriously,'  "  said  Alicia.  "Don't  talk  such 
nonsense,  David !  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  Jonathan 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  111 

Heath — his  pride  in  you,  and  in  himself?  Of  course, 
it  will  be  a  wrench  to  say  good-bye  again,  but  do  you 
think  he  would  smoke  his  pipe  in  peace  if  he  saw 
you  spoiling  your  life  at  his  side,  knowing  that  your 
affection  for  him  was  dragging  you  back  from  the  great 
work  you  have  been  shaped  for?  Now  tell  me — do  you 
think  that  would  make  him  happy?" 

"No,"  said  David  humbly.    "I  suppose  not." 

"And  would  you  be  happy,  knowing  that  the  friends 
you  made  at  Oxford  were  doing  big  work  while  you 
were  blowing  a  blacksmith's  bellows?" 

David  did  not  argue.  Of  course,  she  was  right,  and 
it  was  no  good  posing  with  Alicia.  What  he  had  meant 
was  that  unless  he  could  work  for  her,  in  what  she 
called  "the  world,"  he  would  rather  knock  his  brains 
out  with  the  biggest  hammer  in  his  father's  shop.  If  he 
could  only  say  so,  instead  of  still  hiding  the  secret  that 
was  red  hot  in  his  heart!  Well,  he  would  say  so,  though 
not  yet — not  yet!  He  must  be  more  sure  of  his  answer. 
He  must  see  further  into  her  soul  before  he  risked  his 
fate. 

"I  have  an  offer  to  go  to  London,"  he  said. 

"There  now!"  cried  Alicia,  her  eyes  aflame  with 
gladness.  "Tell  me,  David,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Tell 
me." 

"They  have  not  asked  me  to  be  Prime  Minister!" 

"David!" 

Alicia  took  up  an  inkpot  and  threatened  his  head. 

"It  is  an  honour,  though,"  said  David.  "I  am  not 
sure  that  I  am  equal  to  it." 


112  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Stuff  and  nonsense.    Tell  me — quick!" 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  the  Master  of  Balliol — whom  I 
fear  more  than  any  man  alive — has  recommended  me — 
the  Lord  knows  why — for  the  post  of  Master  of  the  new 
working-man's  settlement  at  Stepney — Erasmus  Hall." 

"David!" 

Alicia  rose  from  her  chair,  and  looked  at  her  friend 
with  eyes  that  were  full  of  pride. 

"It  gives  one  an  opportunity,"  said  David,  dropping 
his  eyes,  but  colouring  to  the  roots  of  his  black  hair. 
Alicia's  pleasure  and  excitement  sent  the  blood  tingling 
through  his  body. 

"Of  course,  oh,  of  course!  Bravo!  Bravo!  That 
will  give  you  plenty  of  blacksmith's  work  with  men's 
hearts  and  souls,  and  you  will  shape  them  well!  I 
have  faith  in  your  handicraft,  David." 

"It  will  carry  me  far,"  said  David.  His  face  went 
white  now,  and  a  little  sweat  broke  out  on  his  broad 
forehead. 

"I  will  do  my  best  if  I  may  still  have  your  faith." 
His  voice  thrilled  like  the  string  of  a  'cello. 

Alicia  took  hold  of  his  coat  lapels. 

"Oh,  David,"  she  said.  "I  am  proud  of  you.  I 
am  proud  of  having  had  something  to  do  with  you — 
just  a  little  in  the  shaping  of  your  mind.  May  I  claim 
that?" 

She  spoke  wistfully,  touched  with  awe  at  the  thought 
that  she  had  taught  David  as  a  boy,  who  one  day — she 
was  sure  of  it — would  be  great. 

Her  words  broke  down  David's  haunting  timidity. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  113 

But  as  he  touched  her  hands,  which  she  held  frankly 
out  to  him  in  friendship,  a  sudden  little  cough  at  the 
open  window  startled  him  so  that  his  blood  ran  cold 
and  the  passion  that  had  flamed  in  him  turned  to  anger 
at  this  intrusion. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  Cuthbert  Cartwright,  the  Vicar,  who  stood  in 
the  garden  looking  in,  with  what  Stretton  had  spoken  of 
to  Alicia  as  his  ecclesiastical  smile. 

"Oh,  Miss  Frensham,"  he  said.  "Pardon  me.  I 
have  a  case  in  the  village  where  your  help  would  be 
most  useful.  It's  poor  Mrs.  Neale.  Bronchitis  again, 
you  know." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alicia.  "I  will  go  this  afternoon. 
It's  hard  on  her  with  all  those  children." 

The  Vicar  hesitated. 

"May  I  come  in  for  a  few  minutes?  I  see  you  have 
David  Heath  there.  I  should  like  to  congratulate  him." 

David  cursed  him  and  his  desire  to  congratulate. 

"Oh,  do  come  in,"  said  Alicia.  "David  has  been 
telling  me  great  news.  May  I  make  it  public,  David?" 

David  grunted  with  a  surliness  that  surprised  Alicia, 
and  she  wondered  at  the  scowl  on  his  face.  As  the 
Vicar  went  round  to  the  door  she  whispered,  "Have  I 
been  indiscreet?" 

"I  don't  see  what  interest  he  has  in  my  private  af- 
fairs!" said  David.  Then  seeing  that  she  took  his 
displeasure  seriously  he  smoothed  the  knot  from  his 
forehead  and  made  apology. 

114 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  115 

"Forgive  me  ...  I'm  a  brute!" 

The  Vicar  came  in,  taking  off  his  wide-brimmed  hat. 
He  did  not  shake  hands  with  David,  but  in  his  cold 
polite  way,  looking  at  Alicia  and  avoiding  the  eyes  of 
her  guest,  he  expressed  his  gratification  that  "Mr. 
Heath  had  done  so  well  at  Oxford."  He  hesitated 
again,  putting  his  face  forward  to  smell  the  flowers. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  our  young  friend  will 
not  rest  on  his  laurels  in  Long  Stretton?" 

David  Heath  resented  that  term  of  "our  young 
friend."  His  brows  lowered  over  his  eyes  and  his 
mouth  drooped  at  the  corners.  Alicia,  who  had  waited 
to  give  him  a  chance  of  answering,  darted  a  quick 
glance  at  him  and  became  a  little  frightened  as  to  what 
David  might  say.  But  David  said  nothing,  as  was  his 
habit,  when  not  in  congenial  company,  having  the 
great  gift  of  silence. 

"I  have  been  telling  him,"  said  Alicia,  "that  Long 
Stretton  is  proud  of  him,  but  must  not  keep  him." 

"No,"  said  the  Vicar,  "we  must  not  keep  him." 

To  himself  he  thought  that  the  sooner  this  young 
bear  left  the  village  the  better  it  would  be.  Through 
the  open  window  he  had  seen  the  clasp  of  hands,  and 
it  had  filled  him  with  a  sense  of  alarm  and  anger. 
Surely  Alicia  would  not  throw  herself  away  on  this 
surly  giant.  God  had  destined  her  for  higher  things. 

He  watched  Alicia  as  she  moved  across  the  room  to 
chirrup  to  the  linnet  which  hung  in  a  cage  by  the 
window,  and  the  spiritual  beauty  of  the  woman,  her 
quiet  grace,  appealed  almost  painfully  to  his  imagina- 


116  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

tion.  If  only  he  could  make  her  see  the  beneficent 
authority  of  his  Church! 

"I  hear  there  is  an  assistant-mastership  vacant  at 
Holmwood  School,"  he  said.  "If  Mr.  Heath  would 
accept  my  influence " 

"Oh,  that  is  kind  of  you,"  said  Alicia.  "But  David 
would  never  make  a  schoolmaster.  He  would  never 
put  up  with  the  pettiness  of  a  county  boarding  schooL 
I  am  sure  he  would  be  rude  to  the  wife  of  the  Head — 
and  that  would  be  fatal  to  promotion!" 

She  laughed  across  at  David,  and  as  he  met  her  eyes 
he  joined  in  her  laughter,  and  thrust  back  his  ill-temper 
at  the  Vicar's  interruption. 

Mr.  Cartwright  looked  straight  down  his  nose  at 
Alicia's  last  words. 

"I  was  a  schoolmaster  once,  yet  I  did  not  realise 
the  pettiness  of  my  life,  nor  intrigue  with  the  head- 
master's lady." 

"You  must  not  take  me  seriously,"  said  Alicia 
hastily,  seeing  that  she  had  hurt  the  Vicar's  pride,  and 
always  quickly  remorseful  that  she  should  give  pain  to 
any  sensitive  soul.  "There  is  nothing  nobler  than  teach- 
ing. In  a  humble  little  way  I  am  a  teacher  myself,  and 
very,  very  proud  of  that.  But  I  meant  that  David  is — 
too  big,  too  strong  in  a  sense,  to  deal  with  boys.  I 
think  he  would  be  more  successful  with  men." 

The  Vicar  recovered  his  equanimity. 

"He  has  a  heavy  hand,  I  admit,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"He  could  knock  them  into  shape." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  117 

It  was  curious  how  they  spoke  of  David  in  the  third 
person,  as  if  he  was  not  present  in  the  flesh. 

"I  hope  I  shall  not  use  physical  force."  David,  with 
a  deep  note  of  laughter,  took  part  in  the  conversation 
for  the  first  time,  to  the  good  pleasure  of  Alicia,  who 
threw  him  a  glance  of  thanks.  Then  he  told  the  Vicar 
of  his  offer. 

Mr.  Cartwright  was  taken  aback. 

"Master  of  Erasmus  Hall!  You!"  His  surprise 
broke  down  his  usual  courtesy.  It  seemed  to  him  in- 
credible that  the  village  youth  should  step  straight  into 
such  a  position.  Surely  it  was  rather  preposterous. 

"It  is  a  great  opportunity,"  said  David  humbly, 
speaking  to  Alicia  rather  than  to  the  clergyman.  "I 
know  that  I  am  hardly  equal  to  the  task." 

"You  were  born  for  it,"  said  Alicia  decidedly.  "You 
are  the  one  man  in  the  world  for  it." 

"Accept  my  congratulations,"  said  the  Vicar.  So 
David  would  not  be  long  in  the  village!  He  was  glad 
of  that,  at  any  rate. 

"Thanks,"  said  David  briefly. 

The  Vicar  got  up  to  go,  but  there  was  a  fresh  invasion 
of  Alicia's  garden,  and  the  voices  of  the  Wingfield  ladies 
could  be  heard  outside.  Alicia  darted  up  and  went  to 
the  door,  and  as  she  opened  it  David  saw  that  the  two 
ladies  were  accompanied  by  Stretton  Wingfield. 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Agnes  in  her  high,  silvery 
voice,  "forgive  us  this  intrusion,  we  have  been  down  to 
Jonathan  Heath's.  Miss  Cecily  and  I  wished  to  ex- 


118  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

press  our  pride  in  dear  Mr.  David's  success.  Finding 
that  he  had  come  here,  we  followed." 

As  David  rose  the  little  lady  took  his  hands  and 
pressed  them  with  gracious  affection. 

"Well  done!"  she  said;  "well  done!" 

Miss  Cecily  also  uttered  her  felicitations,  though 
more  shyly.  "What  a  handsome  young  man  he  is," 
she  thought. 

"Mr.  Stretton  explained  what  high  honours  you  have 
carried  away  from  Oxford,"  said  Miss  Agnes.  "We 
hardly  realised  it  before.  It  is  a  great  thing  for  Long 
Stretton." 

She  turned  with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure,  seeing  the 
Vicar,  and  Alicia's  small  room  was  noisy  with  the 
chatter  of  the  two  ladies  and  with  Alicia's  own  laughter 
and  gaiety. 

Stretton  Wingfield  was  the  only  silent  one,  for  even 
David  found  himself  obliged  to  answer  the  many  ques- 
tions and  congratulations  of  the  two  ladies.  Between 
Stretton  and  Alicia  there  had  been  a  swift  glance  of 
greeting  and  a  smile.  Then  Alicia  with  heightened 
colour  had  dropped  her  eyes  before  his  and  turned 
nervously  to  answer  Miss  Agnes.  David  had  not 
caught  the  meeting  of  eyes,  but  he  noticed  that  no 
words  passed  between  Stretton  and  Alicia,  and  that  in- 
deed Alicia  seemed  to  avoid  this  visitor.  He  was  glad. 
He  had  an  instinctive  dislike  to  this  well-dressed  man  of 
the  town. 

Stretton,  who  had  put  his  cap  on  the  table,  and  had 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  119 

sat  down  quietly,  chirruping  a  little  to  the  bird  above 
his  head,  looked  round  the  room.  Every  detail  of  it 
was  familiar  to  him.  But  was  it  possible  that  he  had 
only  left  it  in  the  dawn  of  this  very  day?  What  would 
his  aunts  and  the  Vicar  and  David  say  if  they  knew 
that  he  had  been  here  through  half  the  night?  He 
smiled  at  the  thought.  It  was  a  pretty  secret!  And 
he  was  on  the  same  chair  where  he  had  sat  for  hours 
with  Alicia's  head  nestled  against  his  knees.  His  eyes 
sped  swiftly  to  her.  How  alluring  she  looked  this 
morning,  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  her  company! 
It  must  not  be  long  before  they  were  alone  together! 
Alicia  had  taught  him  the  meaning  of  love.  He  had 
played  with  it  before,  and  believed  that  he  possessed  it 
Now  he  knew  better.  Love  was  not  a  fitful  flame, 
blowing  hot  and  cold.  It  was  the  poetry  of  the  soul, 
chaste  and  pure.  Alicia  had  baptised  him  in  a  new 
spirit.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  in  the  past,  what  a 
weak  passionate  fool  I 

"My  dear,  how  glad  you  must  be  to  have  David 
back."  It  was  Aunt  Cecily  speaking  in  a  low  voice 
to  Alicia  in  the  window  corner.  "Yes,"  said  Alicia, 
"I  am  glad." 

Aunt  Cecily  patted  her  on  the  hand. 

"One  day  you  will  have  a  pretty  story  for  us!" 

She  smiled  meaningly  and  glanced  at  David,  who 
was  talking  to  Miss  Agnes.  Alicia  followed  her  glance, 
and  a  look  of  surprise  and  then  of  alarm  came  into  her 
eyes,  while  a  flush  of  colour  swept  into  her  face. 


120  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"What  nonsense!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "How 
can  you,  Miss  Cecily?" 

The  maiden  lady  smiled  upon  her  with  twinkling 
eyes. 

"We  shall  see  what  we  shall  see!" 

Stretton  caught  some  of  these  words,  and  guessed 
at  the  rest.  He  could  smile  now  at  Aunt  Cecily's  suspi- 
cions. They  gave  him  no  twinge  of  jealousy.  On  the 
contrary,  he  felt  a  sudden  glow  of  friendship  towards 
David.  "Poor  devil!"  he  thought.  "Poor  devil!" 

David  was  the  first  to  break  up  the  small  party,  and 
after  renewed  congratulations  from  the  company  which 
caused  him  some  embarrassment,  he  strode  out  of  the 
cottage.  Alicia;  walked  with  him  to  the  gate,  the  others 
following  into  the  garden  to  see  the  flowers  and  Alicia's 
beehive. 

"You  will  not  be  foolish  now?  You  will  accept  your 
good  fortune?" 

She  spoke  in  her  usual  tone,  though  Aunt  Cecily's 
words  made  her  feel  embarrassed  for  the  first  time  in 
David's  presence. 

"I  will  take  your  advice,"  said  David,  "now  as  al- 
ways." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  at  the  gate,  and  he  noticed 
how  cold  it  was. 

"I  will  come  to  the  forge  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "We 
will  have  another  talk." 

"Yes,  do.    I  want  to  tell  you  something  else — to- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  121 

There  was  surprise  in  her  face  as  she  looked  up  at 
him. 

"Yes?" 

Then  something  in  his  eyes  frightened  her,  and  she 
turned  and  ran  quickly  back  to  the  Wingfields. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THAT  evening  David  and  Jonathan  sat  talking  long 
over  their  pipes,  talking  with  long  silences  between  the 
words.  David  for  the  first  time  spoke  of  his  love  for 
Alicia,  of  the  ambition  that  had  burnt  in  his  heart  these 
three  years  and  more.  He  had  spoken  bluntly,  hiding 
his  emotion,  as  men  do  in  these  matters,  and  especially 
to  a  father.  He  had  expected  some  expression  of  aston- 
ishment, but  the  secret,  it  seemed,  was  no  secret. 

"I  knew  it,  Davy,"  said  Jonathan,  blowing  out  a 
long  puff  of  smoke.  "It's  no  news  to  me,  lad." 

"And  what  d'you  think  of  it,  father?  Do  you  think 
I'm  mad  to  dream  of  her?" 

Jonathan  smoked  on  for  a  minute  before  answering. 

"I  reckon  you  are  mad,"  he  said;  then,  with  just  the 
flicker  of  a  smile,  "Love  is  all  madness,  for  it  makes 
men  do  things  that  are  above  them,  beyond  their 
strength  as  it  might  be  according  to  the  flesh.  Now 
when  I  first  met  your  mother  I  remember  I  carried  that 
anvil  across  the  shed  as  if  it  were  no  more  than  a 
feather-weight,  while  she  looked  on  with  wide-open 
eyes  as  though  'twere  a  miracle;  and  so  it  was:  I 
could  never  do  it  again  without  two  men's  help.  But 

that  day  when  she  first  sat  here  I  did  it  out  of  silly 

122 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  123 

pride  in  my  strength,  and  that  was  madness — and 
love." 

He  fell  into  silence  again,  and  then  lit  another  pipe. 

"When  you  went  to  Oxford  I  reckon  you  lifted 
heavier  weights  than  most  sane  men.  'Twas  love 
that  partly  gave  you  strength  to  beat  the  best  brains  of 
England.  I  knowed  it  all  along,  Davy." 

"Does  she  guess?" 

"No,"  said  Jonathan.  Then  after  another  pause: 
"I  don't  think  she  has  a  notion.  Yet  all  the  same  she 
loves  you  well,  does  Alicia.  When  you  go  to  her,  lad, 
she'll  be  fair  surprised  to  find  that  she's  been  so  igno- 
rant of  what  was  in  her  all  the  time.  It's  like  a  bit  of 
iron  that  has  a  lot  o'  latent  heat  afore  the  hammer 
strikes  it." 

"I'm  afraid  to  say  anything.  I  had  no  idea  I  was 
such  a  coward ! " 

"Don't  use  the  word,"  said  Jonathan.    "I  hate  it." 

"You  see,  father,  if  she  said  no,  where  should  I  be? 
Darkness!  It  would'  be  the  death  of  me." 

"You'll  be  a  man  whatever  happens,"  said  Jonathan. 
"I  trust  you  for  that,  Davy.  Don't  fret.  No  good 
ever  came  of  that!  Miss  Alicia  will  not  refuse  the 
only  man  as  could  give  her  happiness — and  that's 
yourself." 

"Ah,  you  think  the  world  is  a  ball  at  my  feet!"  said 
David,  sending  a  smile  over  to  his  father. 

"And  so  'tis." 

This  talk,  and  his  father's  perfect  confidence  in 
Alicia's  good  sense,  as  he  called  it,  filled  David  with 


124  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

a  hopefulness  that  no  doubts  could  stifle.  He  felt 
elated  in  spirit  above  the  world's  clay.  His  soul  sang 
within  him,  though  he  sat  smoking  quietly  as  though 
he  had  not  a  seething  cauldron  in  his  heart.  As  the 
clock  struck  twelve  Jonathan  got  up  and  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"Time  to  be  abed,  sonny!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  a  good-night  grip.  In 
the  earlier  days  when  David  was  a  boy  he  used  to 
kiss  this  iron  hand  when  saying  good-night,  and  now 
after  many  years  something  moved  him  to  bend  his 
head  and  put  his  lips  to  it. 

"You've  been  a  brave  father  to  me.  I  owe  all  I 
have  to  you,  dad." 

Jonathan  gripped  his  son's  hand  harder. 

"We've  been  good  friends,  laddie — good  friends. 
God  be  praised!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AN  hour  after  he  had  gone  to  bed  David  put  on  an 
old  straw  hat  and  went  quietly  out  of  doors.  If  Jona- 
than heard  him  he  would  not  be  surprised.  He  gener- 
ally took  a  nightly  prowl  before  turning  in. 

The  moon  was  high  again  and  it  was  a  silver  night. 
David  plunged  down  the  lane  towards  the  river  and 
walked  quickly  along  the  path  that  meandered  by  the 
bank,  sometimes  leaving  the  stream  to  strike  through 
the  heart  of  an  arrow  wood,  and  then  returning  again 
to  the  water's  edge.  For  a  time  his  brain  had  been 
hot  and  excited,  but  presently  the  cool  night  breeze 
calmed  him,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  woods,  and  there 
in  the  dim  aisle  where  the  moonlight  filtered  only 
faintly  through  the  entangled  foliage,  he  regained  a 
peace  of  soul  in  which  he  could  think  reasonably  and 
normally.  After  all,  his  father  was  right.  He  must 
not  play  the  coward.  He  must  be  a  man  whatever 
happened!  And  surely  Alicia  had  to-day  revealed  her 
heart  to  him.  Surely  she  was  too  good  to  play  with  a 
man's  soul  .  .  .  and  she  must  have  seen  that  his  soul 
was  subject  to  her. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  gazed  bareheaded  down  to 
the  bright  moon  that  floated  through  a  drift  of  snow- 
clouds  in  the  reflection  of  the  quiet  water.  He  uttered 

125 


126  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

a  secret  prayer  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Fate  which  had 
given  him  such  a  hope  of  happiness.  He  was  unworthy 
of  such  a  blessed  life  as  he  would  have  with  Alicia. 
He  knew  his  own  faults — his  silent  nature,  the  shyness 
that  checked  the  slightest  outward  sign  of  sentiment, 
the  evidence  of  peasant  up-bringing  that  no  years  at 
Oxford  could  ever  hide  away,  the  inner  self-confidence 
that  in  spite  of  shyness  gave  him  a  certain  intellectual 
arrogance  and  pride,  a  touch  of  brutality  that  came 
out  sometimes  in  moments  of  passion  and  ill-temper. 
But  with  Alicia  he  would  mould  himself  into  a  nobler 
shape,  and  he  would  be  humble  under  her  instruction. 
In  the  mirror  of  the  stream  he  saw  her  face  smiling  to 
him,  mistily.  .  .  . 

David  was  startled  from  his  thoughts  by  two  figures 
who  came  walking  slowly  along  the  river's  bank,  from 
out  the  trees  which  filled  an  angle  made  by  the  sudden 
bend  of  the  stream.  They  were  walking  as  country 
lovers  do,  with  an  arm  round  the  other's  waist  and  the 
girl's  head  inclining  to  the-shoulder  of  her  lad.  David 
smiled  to  himself,  feeling  a  kind  of  friendliness  to  those 
two  young  people  who  were  defying  all  the  laws  of 
village  propriety  by  "walking  out"  at  this  hour  of  the 
night.  They  were  happy  with  each  other,  and  the 
world  might  sleep  or  wake  for  all  they  cared !  Perhaps 
he  and  they  were  the  only  mortals  out  of  bed  in  Long 
Stretton  at  that  time. 

He  drew  back  into  the  darkness  of  the  wood  that 
margined  the  river  path.  He  of  all  men  at  that  moment 
would  not  disturb  the  harmony  of  this  lovers'  walk! 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  127 

The  couple  came  nearer,  and  the  moonlight  shone 
full  on  the  faces  of  Alicia  and  Stretton  Wingfield. 
Stretton's  head  was  bent  down  to  the  woman  whose 
face  pressed  against  his  shoulder,  and  he  spoke  low 
words  to  her. 

And  to  David  who  saw  them,  there,  passing  before 
him,  it  was  as  if  hell  itself  mocked  at  him. 

He  uttered  the  strangled  cry  of  an  animal  in  pain, 
and  staggered  back  against  a  bramble  bush,  grasping 
the  thorns,  which  pierced  his  hands. 

"What  is  that?"  said  Stretton,  stopping  a  moment 
to  listen. 

"It  sounded  like  some  poor  beast  caught  in  a  trap," 
said  Alicia.  They  stayed  listening  for  a  few  seconds, 
but  hearing  nothing  more  went  on  again,  Alicia  press- 
ing closer  to  Stretton,  who  had  his  arm  about  her. 


CHAPTER  XV 

STRETTON  WINGFIELD  had  overslept  himself  two 
mornings  running,  and  his  aunts  were  getting  anxious 
as  to  his  health.  They  held  private  consultations  on 
the  subject,  and  agreed  that  "the  poor  boy,"  as  they 
called  him,  must  have  been  sadly  overworked  in  town. 
Miss  Agnes  begged  him  to  go  to  bed  earlier. 

"It  is  not,"  she  said,  "that  I  object  to  your  coming 
down  late  to  breakfast,  dear  Stretton — though  it  is  true 
that  Blinkworthy  grumbles  a  little  and  Mrs.  Hibbert 
is  sadly  put  out  by  having  to  cook  a  second  meal.  I 
have  told  them,  however,  that  as  my  nephew  and  guest 
your  comfort  must  be  considered  above  the  usual 
rules  of  our  household.  Believe  me,  I  have  no  com- 
plaint to  make  on  that  score.  But  for  your  own  sake 
I  do  venture  to  remind  you  that  the  early  hours  of 
the  night  are  always  most  restful  for  the  brain  and 
body." 

"My  dear  Aunt,"  said  Stretton,  who  had  strolled 
down  at  eleven,  "I  am  really  tremendously  sorry  to 
cause  all  this  trouble.  But,  you  see,  habit  is  stronger 
than  nature,  and  for  years  I  have  never  been  to  bed 
before  one  o'clock.  I  couldn't  go  to  sleep,  I  assure 
you." 

128 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  129 

"My  dear  boy!"  said  his  aunt.  "Surely  you  can 
break  yourself  of  a  bad  habit?" 

"Too  old  to  try,"  said  Stretton  good-temperedly. 
"But  I  really  will  endeavour  to  struggle  to  bed  at  a 
more  respectable  hour.  I  know  how  it  must  shock 
your  country  ways." 

"What  time  did  you  go  to  bed  last  night?"  said 
his  aunt.  "I  did  not  hear  you  come  upstairs." 

Stretton  knocked  the  top  off  an  egg,  and  sprinkled 
the  yolk  with  salt.  "We  don't  get  eggs  like  this  in 
town,"  he  said  with  sudden  enthusiasm. 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Agnes,  falling  into  the  booby  trap. 
"We  country  people  do  have  some  advantages.  I  shall 
never  forget  an  egg  I  tasted  at  your  father's  house 
thirty  years  ago.  'Rupert,'  I  said,  sadly  impolite  I  fear, 
'this  egg  has  a  most  peculiar  flavour!'  'Ah,'  said  your 
father,  refusing  as  usual  to  take  anything  seriously, 
'it  was  laid  by  a  hen  of  genius,  and  genius,  dear  Agnes, 
as  you  have  so  frequently  observed  regarding  myself, 
is  always  eccentric ! ' ' 

"Poor  old  governor!"  said  Stretton.  "That  was  just 
like  him." 

He  launched  his  aunt  on  other  conversational  topics, 
away  from  the  inconvenient  subject  of  his  late  hours. 
It  would  never  do  for  her  to  know  that  the  first  glamour 
of  dawn  was  in  the  sky  when  he  had  unlocked  the  gate 
in  the  garden  wall  on  his  way  to  bed.  He  had  had  a 
perilous  encounter  at  that  hour  which  still  made  his 
nerves  jump  at  the  thought  of  it.  He  had  been  pouring 
himself  out  a  glass  of  port  wine  in  the  dining-room  as 


130  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

stealthily  as  any  thief,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  house- 
hold, when  his  hand  had  knocked  against  a  brass  tray, 
sending  it  with  a  clatter  to  the  polished  oak  floor. 

He  swore  softly,  bending  to  pick  the  thing  up,  almost 
as  much  panic-stricken  as  if  he  were  indeed  a  thief  with 
a  fear  of  penal  servitude  as  a  consequence  of  his  care- 
lessness. A  moment  later  the  dining-room  door  creaked 
and  then  opened  slowly. 

"Who's  that?"  said  Stretton,  in  a  quaking  voice, 
expecting  to  see  one  of  his  aunts,  and  preparing  a 
plausible  explanation  of  his  actions. 

But  it  was  Blinkworthy.  The  old  man  had  come 
down  in  his  night-gown  with  a  poker  in  his  hand.  His 
withered  old  legs  were  bare  to  the  knees,  and  the  candle 
he  held  high  in  his  other  hand,  which  trembled  violently 
so  that  the  flame  flickered  to  and  fro,  glistened  brightly 
on  his  bald  head. 

"Good  Lord,  Mr.  Stretton!"  said  the  old  man.  "I 
thought  'twas  a  burglar.  Whatever  be  you  a-doing?" 

"Got  a  raging  toothache,"  said  Stretton,  catching 
hold  of  a  handy  lie.  "Couldn't  bear  it  any  longer,  so 
I  came  down  to  get  some  wine." 

"Haven't  you  been  to  bed  yet?"  said  Blinkworthy, 
eyeing  him  suspiciously. 

"No,  I've  been  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  wild 
beast." 

Stretton  burst  out  into  a  chuckle  of  laughter  and  sat 
back  in  a  chair. 

"Blinkworthy,  you're  the  funniest  old  sight!     For 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  131 

heaven's  sake  get  back  to  bed,  man,  and  cover  up 
those  legs.    You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"Like  enough,"  said  the  old  man  severely;  "but  I 
had  my  duty  to  your  aunts,  sir." 

"Well,  don't  tell  them  about  this  adventure." 
"I  never  keep  anything  back  from  them." 
Blinkworthy  intended  to  show  this  young  man  that 
his  fidelity  was  not  to  be  tampered  with. 

"What!"  said  Stretton.  "You'll  tell  them?  Then, 
by  Gad,  I'll  give  them  a  description  of  you  in  your 
night-gown!  You'll  never  be  able  to  look  them  in  the 
face  again,  Blinkworthy!" 

"Good  Lord,  Master  Stretton!"  said  the  old  man, 
frightened  at  this  awful  threat.  "I  beg  of  you  not  to 
hold  me  up  to  ridicule." 

"Ay,  and  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Hibbert,  too." 
"Oh,  Mr.  Stretton,  I  trust  you  are  joking." 
Blinkworthy  was  now  thoroughly  alarmed. 
"Well,  we'll  strike  a  bargain.    Don't  tell  them  about 
my  toothache — you  know  how  they  would  worry,  don't 
you? — and  I'll  not  breathe  a  word  about  those  bare 
legs  of  yours." 

The  bargain  was  struck,  and  Blinkworthy  con- 
descended to  drink  a  glass  of  port.  But  he  insisted 
that  Stretton  should  precede  him  upstairs. 

He  also  had  grave  suspicions  of  a  young  man  who 
did  not  go  to  bed  till  the  dawn.  He  wondered  whether 
some  village  girl  .  .  .  well,  well,  young  men  who  came 
down  from  London  were  not  to  be  trusted  from  all  he 
had  heard  tell. 


132  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Stretton  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  old  man 
had  gone  back  to  his  room  and  shut  his  door.  "I'm 
glad  I  frightened  him,"  he  thought.  "He  is  sensitive 
about  those  legs  of  his  ...  and  no  wonder  in  a  house- 
hold of  elderly  ladies,  with  strict  notions  of  propriety!" 

Stretton  had  received  a  solemn  wink  from  him  as  he 
brought  in  the  late  breakfast.  The  old  fellow  was  to  be 
trusted,  he  felt  sure,  and  he  was  glad  of  it,  because  he 
did  not  want  any  awkward  discovery  which  would  com- 
promise Alicia.  As  yet  his  aunts  had  not  a  notion  that 
anything  was  "going  on"  between  him  and  their  pro- 
tegee. He  must  keep  the  secret  at  all  costs.  Even 
Alicia  agreed  that  it  was  advisable  not  to  tell  the  old 
ladies  yet.  Though  she  hated  secrecy,  she  recognised 
the  force  of  his  requests — that  with  his  political  cam- 
paign in  front  of  him  he  could  not  settle  down  in  town 
with  her,  or  elsewhere,  and  that  until  then  the  ladies 
should  not  be  confided  in.  They  had  all  the  traditions 
of  caste,  and  Stretton  knew  well  that  with  all  their 
graciousness  and  charming  amiability  to  Alicia,  they 
would  never  regard  her  as  a  match  for  the  heir  to 
Stretton  Hall.  He  hinted  this  to  her,  and  she  did  not 
shirk  the  truth  of  it. 

"Your  aunts  are  very  fond  of  me,  and  I  love  them 
this  side  of  idolatry.  But  they  do  not  look  upon  me  as 
a  social  equal.  Their  condescension  is  sweet  and 
gracious,  but  it  is  the  old-fashioned  idea  of  noblesse 
oblige.  Oh,  I  know  that  well,  and  it  does  not  hurt  me 
in  the  least;  it  just  amuses  me." 

Stretton  was  indeed  in  an  awkward  position.    His 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  133 

aunts  allowed  him  three  hundred  a  year,  and  now,  at 
this  important  period  of  his  career,  he  could  not  afford 
to  relinquish  his  income. 

"I  am  sometimes  afraid  I  shall  offend  them  by  tak- 
ing the  wrong  side — in  politics,"  Stretton  had  told 
Alicia  as  they  had  walked  hand-in-hand  through  the 
woods  last  night.  "But  probably  they  will  not  pay 
much  attention  to  that,  as  they  live  so  much  out  of 
the  world,  and  do  not  understand  or  pay  the  slightest 
attention  to  the  political  situation.  But  we  must  keep 
our  secret  from  them,  Alicia.  It's  a  wretched  thing, 
but  I  cannot  do  without  their  allowance  yet  awhile. 
So  we  must  not  risk  a  quarrel." 

This  had  frightened  Alicia. 

"Stretton,"  she  said,  her  hand  trembling  upon  his 
arm,  "do  not  let  me  jeopardise  your  career.  Your 
love  is  very  precious  to  me.  But  I  would  rather — oh, 
ever  so  much  rather! — have  it  as  a  beautiful  dream,  as 
a  spiritual  reality,  than  that  I  should  drag  you  down. 
That  would  only  make  me  hate  myself." 

He  had  soothed  her  with  tender  words  and  brave 
assurance.  There  was  no  question  of  dragging  him 
down.  She  had  already  lifted  him  up  to  great  heights 
of  joy.  In  her  love  the  base  metal  of  his  nature  had 
been  transmuted  into  something  nearer  gold.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  told  her,  he  felt  that  there  was 
something  higher  than  self-seeking.  The  scales  had 
fallen  from  his  eyes  when  they  had  met  her  shining 
vision,  and  he  had  seen,  now,  that  ambition  was  a  poor 


134  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

sordid  thing  unless  its  object  was  to  serve  a  cause  or 
a  nation  with  self-sacrifice. 

"You  shall  be  my  inspiration,  my  Egeria,"  he  had 
said,  his  imagination  aglow  with  an  enthusiasm  that 
was  new  to  him,  and  with  a  sincerity  to  which  he 
yielded  with  a  passionate  pleasure,  finding  an  infinite 
refreshment  and  hopefulness  in  having,  for  once  check- 
mated the  little  devils  who  had  so  often  sat  grinning  in 
his  soul  when  he  had  been  moved  by  sentiment.  "I 
do  not  speak  idly,  Alicia,  or  indulge  in  high-falutin 
phrases  of  old  love  tales"  (in  this  he  deceived  himself 
a  little,  for  his  language  was  exotic  at  times  and  echoed 
the  Elizabethan  poets),  "but  you  are  now  my  North 
Star,  and  without  you  I  should  go  astray  across  the 
dark  waters." 

Alicia  had  in  her  simple  way  gone. back  to  the  prac- 
tical point  of  their  argument. 

"I  am  not  one  of  those  women,"  she  said,  "who  think 
that  marriage  must  always  be  the  condition  of  love. 
There  would  be  more  love  in  the  world,  and  happier 
women,  if  men  were  not  bound  down  at  once  by  legal 
documents  and  religious  ceremony.  That  is  mere  self- 
ishness on  the  women's  part.  It  is  not  right  that  they 
should  spoil  a  man's  career  because  they  are  impatient 
at  once  for  home  life,  beautiful  vision  as  it  is  to  us 
lonely  ones.  If  you  leave  me  for  ten  years,  Stretton, 
1  will  wait,  and  wait  ever  so  patiently,  so  long  as  I 
know  that  our  souls  have  not  been  separated." 

"It's  dangerous  doctrine,"  said  Stretton  honestly, 
though  her  words  eased  him  of  a  growing  anxiety. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  135 

"Most  men  need  binding  down.  We  are  such  selfish 
and  careless  brutes.  You  see  the  woman  who  allows 
her  lover  liberty  is  herself  bound  down  ...  if  they 
have  been  intimate  in  love." 

"How?"  said  Alicia. 

"What  if  she  has  children?" 

"Oh,  then,"  said  Alicia  eagerly,  "then  surely  she  can 
be  more  patient  in  waiting.  Then,  indeed,  it  is  not 
waiting,  but  the  most  precious  possession." 

"But  why  should  there  be  any  waiting  .  .  .  any  sepa- 
ration? Why  not  marriage  in  the  normal  way?" 

Stretton  put  this  question  bluntly,  though  inwardly 
he  was  afraid  of  the  subject.  But  he  must  sound  the 
depths  of  Alicia's  soul.  This  was  a  problem  in  which 
they  were  both  vitally  interested,  and  there  must  be 
no  disguise. 

"Surely  there  are  many  cases,"  said  Alicia  quietly, 
"where  the  man  must  not  be  fettered  too  soon  by  the 
ties  of  domestic  life.  Perhaps  he  is  a  soldier  who  is 
ordered  abroad,  or  a  traveller  who  is  called  into  wild 
places.  Perhaps  he  has  to  keep  a  father  or  a  mother 
whom  he  has  no  right  to  desert  in  the  loneliness  of 
their  old  age.  Perhaps  he  is  a  writer  who  needs  solitude 
to  find  his  genius.  Then  .  .  .  there  is  your  own  case." 

"Ah!"  said  Stretton  thoughtfully,  "there  is  my  own 
case." 

To  himself  he  thought,  "Good  God!  how  the  woman 
gives  herself  into  my  hands!"  And,  though  it  made 
his  path  smooth  before  him,  he  had  a  secret  loathing 
for  himself  for  not  resisting  her  arguments.  In  all 


136  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

honour  he  should  guard  her  against  herself.  He  was 
silent,  utterly  perplexed  by  Alicia's  philosophy  of  life, 
by  his  own  secret  consciousness  that  it  was  a  false  and 
dangerous  philosophy  .  .  .  however  sweet,  however  con- 
venient to  his  own  career. 

Alicia  laughed  shyly,  becoming  self-conscious  after 
an  argument  which  had  been  mainly  theoretical  to  her, 
though  not  to  him. 

"Why  should  you  cross-question  me  like  any  devil's 
advocate?  I  am  merely  quoting  your  own  opinions  as 
you  put  them  in  your  last  book.  Have  you  forgotten 
that?" 

"I  wrote  many  foolish  things  in  that  utterly  stupid 
novel." 

Stretton  spoke  almost  savagely.  The  truth  was  that 
Alicia's  words  had  disconcerted  him  in  an  extraordinary 
way.  The  sins  of  passion,  done  in  mere  passion,  seemed 
to  him  more  decent  and  respectable  than  this  philoso- 
phy calmly  preached  by  a  pure  woman.  He  saw  it  in 
all  its  hideousness,  knowing  men  and  his  own  soul  bet- 
ter than  Alicia  did,  who  was  ignorant  of  both.  Yes,  he 
had  written  such  things  in  his  novel,  and  now  he  saw 
his  frightful  insincerity.  The  temptation  of  the  devil 
himself  could  not  be  more  appalling  than  the  easy  way 
of  betrayal  offered  to  him  in  all  purity  by  the  most 
chaste  woman  he  had  ever  known. 

Who  could  resist  the  seductive  sweetness?  Not 
Stretton  Wingfield,  who  had  never  made  a  habit  of 
resisting. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  137 

Alicia  asked  what  time  he  would  be  at  her  cottage 
that  evening. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  come?"  said  Stretton, 
knowing  in  his  heart  that  whether  he  ought  or  ought 
not,  he  could  not  keep  away  from  the  house  where  he 
had  played  knight-errant  to  Alicia's  fairy  princess. 

"Why  not?"  said  Alicia  in  surprise,  and  then  added 
quickly,  "Oh  ...  I  am  selfish. . . .  You  have  work  to  do, 
and  I  cannot  have  you  every  night." 

"Good  heavens,  no!"  said  Stretton.  "I  shall  do  no 
work  while  I  am  down  here.  . . .  But ...  I  am  afraid  of 
compromising  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Alicia.  "We  must  be  careful  for  your 
sake.  But  after  twelve  there  is  no  risk.  Every  soul 
in  the  place  is  snoring  by  that  time." 

"But  is  it  right?"  said  Stretton.  "Is  it  right,  my 
love?" 

"If  I  am  your  love,  it  is  right,  Stretton,"  said  Alicia 
quietly.  She  leant  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  "You 
do  not  want  me  to  doubt  your  love?"  she  asked,  as 
though  she  could  doubt  that  the  moon  were  above  them 
— though  its  light  lapped  their  feet — rather  than 
Stretton's  sincerity. 

He  answered  her  with  low  and  passionate  words.  It 
was  then  that  they  had  been  startled  by  the  strange 
noise  in  the  wood  which  Alicia  had  said  was  the  cry 
of  an  animal  caught  in  a  trap. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THAT  afternoon,  after  the  children  had  left  school 
and  when  Alicia  was  home  again  sitting  at  her  lonely 
tea,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  knew  it  was 
not  David,  though  she  had  half  expected  him,  because 
he  used  the  knocker  with  a  hammer-and-anvil  stroke, 
which  could  not  be  mistaken.  Her  thoughts  flew  to 
Stretton.  "How  rash!  How  rash  of  him!"  she 
whispered,  seeing  that  it  was  still  some  hours  before 
the  darkness,  when  he  might  come  to  her  without  fear 
of  village  gossip.  But  when  she  went  to  the  door  it  was 
not  Stretton,  but  the  Vicar.  He  did  not  often  come  to 
her  cottage,  except  when  there  was  sickness  in  the  vil- 
lage and  he  needed  her  help.  This,  no  doubt,  was  the 
explanation  of  his  visit  now,  and  she  asked  him  who 
was  ill. 

"No  one,"  he  said,  somewhat  nervously,  she  thought, 
glancing  past  her  into  the  room,  "unless  it  is  myself," 
he  added. 

"Are  you  unwell?"  asked  Alicia,  with  quick  con- 
cern. "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"Perhaps  you  can." 

Then  he  said  with  more  composure,  taking  a  seat 
while  she  still  stood,  "There  is  nothing  much  the  matter 
with  me.  I  am  a  little  overwrought,  that  is  all."  He 

138 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  139 

passed  a  thin  hand  over  his  high  forehead.  "It  is  so 
refreshing  to  have  a  quiet  talk  with  you  now  and  again. 
My  conversation  is  chiefly  restricted  to  inquiring  into 
old  women's  ailments  or  listening  to  the  domestic  griev- 
ances of  ignorant  yokels.  'Parish  poking'  is  not  the 
most  intellectual  of  pursuits." 

"No,"  said  Alicia.  "I  often  marvel  at  your  patience." 

"Not  that  I  complain,  God  forbid!  I  try  to  do 
my  duty  by  my  poor  people.  But  you  understand,  to 
a  man  who  has  some  reminiscences  of  scholarship  and 
has  a  larger  life  in  the  past,  the  society  of  village  folk 
is  not  altogether  soul-satisfying! " 

Alicia  could  understand.  She  also  fretted  some- 
times against  the  narrow  cage  of  life. 

"Of  course,  it  has  its  value,"  said  the  Vicar,  speak- 
ing, as  usual,  a  monologue  rather  than  taking  part  in  a 
conversation.  "It  thrusts  a  man  back  upon  himself 
and  enables  him  to  live  the  inner  life.  Even  the  pagan 
Marcus  Aurelius  saw,  as  well  as  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
that  the  empire  of  the  soul  was  of  more  importance 
than  the  pomp  and  vanity  of  the  court  or  the  dominion 
of  the  world.  After  all,  we  who  live  in  the  village  have 
opportunities  denied  to  those  who  are  in  the  whirlpool 
of  great  cities.  They  rub  shoulders  with  many  people 
and  fritter  away  their  time  in  small  pleasures  and  small 
talk,  but  we,  in  solitude,  may  learn  at  least  to  know 
ourselves,  and  the  human  heart  which  is  in  us.  That 
is  the  deeper  knowledge,  and  most  profitable." 

Alicia  smiled  to  herself  at  his  inconsistency — begin- 
ning with  a  grievance  and  ending  with  self-satisfaction. 


140  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

She  wondered,  too,  why  he  should  come  to  plunge  into 
a  philosophical  discussion  in  this  unusual  way.  She 
glanced  at  the  clock.  It  would  be  awkward  if  Stretton 
came  before  his  time! 

But  argument  was  a  weakness  with  her,  and  she  took 
up  his  challenge. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  those  who  live  in  solitude,  as 
you  say,  do  know  their  own  soul,  or,  if  so,  whether  it 
is  worth  knowing.  Self-consciousness  so  often  breeds 
a  morbid  view  of  things,  and  even  the  peace  which 
comes  from  cultivating  'the  inner  life'  may  often  be 
self-complacency  at  one's  virtues  and  narrow  princi- 
ples." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  Vicar,  shifting  in  his 
seat  uneasily,  as  if  her  words  had  stung  him  a  little. 

"Well,"  said  Alicia,  less  dogmatically,  "I  am  per- 
sonally so  ignorant  of  the  world,  of  humanity  in 
crowded  places,  that  I  would  barter  some  of  my  soli- 
tude for  a  wider  experience.  One  needs,  I  think,  to  be 
jostled  and  elbowed  before  retiring  into  the  desert.  I 
do  not  agree  with  the  hermit  ideal.  Some  of  the  saints 
seem  to  me  to  have  been  so  anxious  to  know  their  own 
souls  that  they  were  utterly  careless  of  other  people's 
needs!  Oh,  I  am  sure  solitude  is  an  overrated  thing!" 

"Then  you  agree  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  live 
alone?" 

The  Vicar  leant  forward  and  spoke  eagerly,  as  if 
some  issue  of  his  own  fate  hung  upon  her  answer. 

Alicia  laughed,  not  noticing  his  anxious  look. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  not  good  for  women  to  live  alone." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  141 

"Ah!  "said  the  Vicar. 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair  and  his  eyes  studied  the 
carpet,  as  if  searching  for  something. 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  went  on  seriously,  "when 
I  believed  firmly  in  the  ideal  of  a  celibate  clergy.  As 
an  Anglican,  I  held  that  a  priest  should  live  solitary 
without  the  cares  of  wife  and  children — without  the 
joys  of  home-life — devoting  himself  solely  to  the  cause 
of  his  Church  and  to  the  service  of  God. 

"It  is  a  false  ideal,"  said  Alicia  in  her  decided  way. 
"No  man  should  be  denied  his  manhood.  To  bring 
children  into  the  world  is  God's  law  to  humanity.  No 
man  or  woman  has  lived  a  whole  and  complete  life 
until  he,  or  she,  has  obeyed  this  natural  and  divine  com- 
mand. I  believe  that  with  absolute  faith!" 

The  Vicar  searched  her  face  with  his  eyes,  and  into 
his  own  eyes  there  leapt  a  sudden  look  of  hunger  and 
appeal. 

He  flushed  deeply  and  then  became  paler  than  usual. 
It  was  evident  to  Alicia  that  he  was  strangely  excited, 
and  a  thought  that  flashed  into  her  mind  caused  her  a 
sudden  panic. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Vicar,  twisting  his  hands  nerv- 
ously, "perhaps  you  rather  wonder  at  my  visit  to- 
night. I  came  to  ask  you  something  that  for  many 
weeks  I  have  been  urged  to  ask." 

"What  is  that,  Mr.  Cartwright?"  said  Alicia,  now 
thoroughly  scared  by  his  manner  and  words. 

"I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife,"  said  the  Vicar.    "I  can- 


142  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

not  conceal  my  love  for  you.  It  is  a  passion  that  is 
a  torture  to  me." 

Alicia  rose  and  dropped  her  needlework.  There  was 
a  hint  of  anger  and  even  of  scorn  in  her  voice  as  she 
answered  him. 

"It  is  a  strange  confession  of  love — that  it  tortures 
you!" 

The  Vicar  held  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  appeal 
that  touched  her  a  little. 

"Pray  do  not  misunderstand  me.  When  I  say  that 
my  love  for  you  is  a  torture,  I  mean  that  it  has  caused 
me  a  severe  spiritual  conflict.  I  recognise  now  that  my 
ideals  of  celibacy  are,  as  you  say,  false  ideals,  and  the 
struggle  between  a  new  revelation  and  old  convictions 
is  always  painful.  I  beg  you  to  believe,  Miss  Alicia, 
that  I  love  you  with  a  single  and  pure  heart." 

Alicia  was  utterly  perplexed  as  to  a  reply. 

"I  like  to  be  loved,"  she  said  at  last,  simply  enough. 
"I  have  had  too  little  love  in  my  life  .  .  .  but  ...  I 
cannot  be  your  wife,  Mr.  Cartwright." 

He  did  not  seem  to  heed  her,  but  went  on  talking 
with  his  eyes  studying  the  carpet  again. 

"I  believe  we  should  be  very  happy  together.  I 
would  endeavour  to  make  you  happy,  and  you  would 
be  a  good  clergyman's  wife.  I  have  every  confidence 
that  you  would  share  my  labours.  Perhaps  you  still 
have  some  doubts  about  the  fundamental  truths  of 
Christianity.  I  would  remove  them." 

Alicia  smiled  at  this  characteristic  speech.  In  her 
rather  hysterical  mood,  startled  as  she  was  by  this 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  143 

extraordinary  interview,  she  had  to  hold  herself  in 
check  to  prevent  the  laughter  or  the  tears  that  would 
have  given  her  relief. 

"You  are  very  good  .  .  .  but  I  really  cannot  be  your 
wife,"  she  said,  almost  as  if  she  were  refusing  some 
favour  to  a  child. 

"Faith,  after  all,"  said  the  Vicar,  "is  a  matter  of  the 
will  rather  than  of  the  intellect,  and  simple  and  sincere 
belief  is  not  incompatible  with  vague  doubts  and  in- 
tellectual difficulties." 

He  paused,  looking  at  Alicia,  and  for  the  first  time 
he  seemed  to  realise  that  she  had  refused  him. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  said  in  a  strangled  voice.  "If 
you  do  not  love  me  .  .  .  will  you  not  have  pity  on  me? 
This  passion  consumes  me.  I  am  in  hell ! " 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry!"  said  Alicia,  filled  now  with  utter 
dismay  at  the  abject  figure  of  the  man  who  until  to-day 
had  seemed  to  her  so  cold  and  self-contained,  passion- 
less, if  any  man  were  so. 

Then  her  own  self-restraint  and  the  knowledge  that 
such  weakness  was  not  to  be  pitied  steadied  her. 

"Mr.  Cartwright,"  she  said  quietly,  "this  passion  you 
talk  of  is  not  true  love — it  cannot  be.  You  say  you  love 
me — yet  you  know  nothing  of  what  I  am.  There  is 
nothing  in  common  between  us — nothing!'' 

"I  have  watched  you  every  day  for  three  years," 
said  the  Vicar  more  quietly,  "and  I  know  you  are  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  for  me." 

"There  are  other  women,"  said  Alicia, 

He  smiled  wretchedly. 


144  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"I  thought  yesterday  that  God  had  sent  us  both  to 
Long  Stretton  for  a  purpose.  I  believed  that  we  were 
destined  for  each  other.  Now  you  ask  me  to  believe 
that  He  has  sported  cruelly  with  my  soul." 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  any  such  thing,"  said 
Alicia.  "I  do  not  believe  God  is  so  much  concerned 
with  you." 

She  was  sorry  immediately  for  her  words,  which  were 
more  cruel  than  she  had  meant. 

He  paled  and  swayed  a  little  as  if  he  had  been 
stabbed.  Then  he  groped  for  his  hat  and  went  towards 
the  door. 

"I  see,"  he  said  bitterly.  "David  Heath  has  been 
before  me." 

He  went  out  and  closed  the  door  quietly.  All  his 
self-control  had  returned  to  him. 

Alicia,  standing  as  he  had  left  her  by  the  side  of  the 
table,  put  her  hands  to  her  temples,  her  face  flushing 
scarlet. 

"David!"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "Do  they  think 
that?" 


CHAPTER  XVH 

ALICIA  called  that  evening  at  the  forge,  as  she  had 
promised,  but  David  Heath  was  out. 

Jonathan  met  her  at  the  door. 

"I  can't  think  what's  come  over  the  lad,"  he  said 
with  a  worried  look,  twisting  his  leather  apron  nerv- 
ously. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know?"  he  said,  throwing  her  a 
keen  glance  from  under  his  rugged  eyebrows. 

"I?" 

Alicia  was  surprised.  She  pondered  for  a  moment, 
and  then  flushed  uneasily  as  certain  vague  thoughts 
crept  out  of  their  hiding  places  and  confronted  her  with 
a  sudden  fear. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  added,  with  just  a  hint 
of  temper.  "What  is  the  matter  with  him?" 

"The  Lord  knows!  I  can't  get  a  word  from  him. 
He  went  out  late  last  night — you  know  his  habit — and 
came  home  as  I  was  just  rising — in  the  dawn.  He 
looked  scared  as  if  he'd  seen  a  sperrit.  When  I  asked 
him  he  said,  'Yes — I've  been  walking  wi'  ghosts, 
feyther,'  and  laughed  so  that  I  saw  something  was 
wrong.  I  thought  p'r'aps  you  might  know  summat." 

He  eyed  her  keenly,  almost  angrily,  and  Alicia  saw 
that  he  suspected  her  of  something.  She  groped  her 

145 


146  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

way  back  to  yesterday,  wondering  if  she  had  said  any- 
thing to  hurt  David  in  the  afternoon. 

Then  she  looked  honestly  at  Jonathan,  and  he  could 
not  doubt  the  truth  in  her  eyes. 

"I  have  said  nothing — done  nothing.  How  could  I  ? 
You  know  my  love  for  David?" 

"Ah!"  Jonathan  looked  down  at  the  white  dust  in 
the  roadway.  He  was  utterly  perplexed.  If  Alicia 
loved  the  lad,  what  was  ado  with  him,  then?  What 
had  happened  in  the  night  that  had  sent  him  home 
with  a  white  haggard  face  and  despairing  eyes? 

It  was  the  most  frightful  shock  that  Jonathan  had 
had  in  his  life  since  his  wife  died  in  his  arms.  Getting 
out  of  bed  at  five  o'clock,  as  was  his  habit  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  throwing  back  the  window  curtain  to  let  in 
the  fresh  morning  air,  he  had  heard  a  stumbling  step 
on  the  stairs,  and  turning,  saw  his  son  standing  in  the 
doorway.  His  boots  and  leggings  were  white  with  dust, 
and  his  black  hair  was  in  wild  disorder  over  a  face  of 
deathly  pallor. 

"David!"  said  Jonathan,  awakening  to  a  sense  of 
horror,  knowing  swiftly  and  instinctively  that  he  was 
in  the  presence  of  some  grave  catastrophe.  "David! 
.  .  .  What's  the  matter?  where' ve  you  been?" 

David  gave  a  short  grim  laugh. 

"I've  been  in  hell,  father." 

He  passed  a  trembling  hand  over  his  face,  and  sat 
down  heavily  on  a  bedroom  chair.  "Don't  ask  me, 
father,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  infinite  weariness.  "I'll 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  147 

tell  you  another  time.    I've  been  walking  with  ghosts 
this  night."    He  laughed  again,  weakly. 

"I'm  a  bit  mad,  and  that's  a  fact;  I've  got  no  pluck. 
. .  .  I'm  an  infernal  weakling." 

Jonathan  endeavoured  to  get  at  the  truth  in  a  round- 
about way,  but  to  no  purpose.  David  talked  of  having 
kept  company  with  the  devil,  which  was  vague  and 
not  illuminating.  Then  Jonathan  put  an  abrupt  ques- 
tion. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Alicia?" 

The  words  roused  David  into  a  sudden  passion. 

"Don't,  father!"  he  said,  springing  up  and  pacing 
the  floor  with  drunken  steps.  "For  God's  sake!  Don't 
mention  her!  D'ye  hear,  father?  If  you'd  have  me 
keep  sane,  don't  speak  of  her.  Oh.  .  .  .  Curse  him! 
Curse  him!" 

"Him!  What  him?"  said  Jonathan.  Then  with  a 
sudden  anger,  though  he  was  a  patient  man,  he  said, 
"Have  you  been  drinking,  that  you  treat  me  like  this?" 

"Yes,  drinking  poison,  all  through  this  cursed  night!" 

Jonathan  was  silent.  He  believed  his  son  to  be 
fever-stricken. 

"I'll  get  you  some  coffee,"  he  said  simply. 

He  went  downstairs  to  the  kitchen,  and  by  some 
strange  psychological  freak  the  ticking  of  the  grand- 
father's clock  brought  back  the  memory  of  the  night 
when  his  wife  had  lain  upstairs  dead  and  he  had 
warmed  some  milk  here  for  the  child  who  lay  sleeping 
quietly  in  his  cradle.  Superstitious  as  all  countrymen 
are,  Jonathan  wondered  with  a  nvrpb  terror  if  David 


148  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

now  were  going  to  die.  He  stood  listening,  but  there 
was  not  a  movement  in  the  bedroom,  and  only  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  sounded,  with  an  unusual  noise,  in 
the  cottage.  Its  steady  beat  excited  the  blacksmith's 
nerves,  and  he  strode  towards  the  old  grandfather,  and 
fumbling  the  case  open,  stopped  the  pendulum.  This 
brought  him  a  curious  sense  of  relief,  and  he  went 
quietly  to  work  to  brew  the  coffee. 

David  would  tell  him  in  good  time.  He  would  not 
fret  the  lad.  Quietly  he  went  upstairs  again  with  the 
coffee  and  some  bread  and  butter. 

"You'll  be  famished,"  he  said.  "Warm  yourself 
with  this  drink." 

David  drank  his  coffee,  and  it  brought  a  more  healthy 
colour  into  his  face  again. 

Thanks,  father." 

Jonathan  left  him  alone,  and  went  to  the  forge  ac- 
cording to  his  usual  habit.  Work  brought  relief  to  his 
anxiety,  steadying  his  nerves.  Muscular  exercise  is 
the  best  antidote  to  an  aching  heart,  and  as  Jonathan 
swung  his  hammer,  getting  into  a  glow  of  heat,  he  grew 
more  cheerful.  After  all  David  was  not  much  more 
than  a  boy,  and  in  youth  the  mind,  though  easily  de- 
pressed, soon  recovers  its  normal  poise.  And  he  was  a 
good  healthy  lad;  there  was  no  bad  blood  in  him,  thank 
God!  At  midday  the  father  and  son  ate  their  dinner 
almost  silently.  David  was  gloomy,  but  his  natural 
appetite  asserted  itself,  and  he  made  a  square  meal, 
to  the  secret  joy  of  his  father,  who  watched  each 
mouthful  with  increasing  satisfaction.  Whatever  was 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  149 

on  David's  mind  had  not  affected  his  body  .  .  .  which 
was  something  to  be  thankful  for.  In  the  afternoon 
David  shut  himself  up  in  his  room — his  own  little  den 
which  he  had  had  to  himself  since  childhood,  and  where 
the  first  books  he  had  read  as  a  child  were  ranged  by 
the  side  of  his  student  books.  In  the  evening  he  went 
out  after  a  casual  word  or  two. 

"Don't  sit  up  for  me,  father." 

All  Jonathan's  anxiety  was  revived  at  the  thought  of 
his  son  wandering  again  on  the  Downs  or  in  the  lonely 
woods,  wandering  with  a  brain  that  some  blow  from 
without  or  within  had  put  out  of  gear. 

"You'll  not  be  long,  lad?"  There  was  a  touch  of 
fear  in  his  voice  that  made  David's  eyes  lose  some- 
thing of  their  gloomy  retrospective  despair. 

"Don't  be  scared  for  me,  father.  I  must  walk  this 
humour  off.  I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself,  I  know; 
but  there  it  is,  I  can't  help  it  to-day.  To-morrow " 

He  laughed,  as  if  to-morrow  all  would  be  well  with 
the  world  and  God  in  His  heaven — but  at  the  end  of 
the  laugh  there  was  something  like  a  sob  in  his  throat, 
and  Jonathan  knew  that  David  was  receiving  a  baptism 
of  pain.  Going  back  to  the  forge  he  groaned  aloud, 
and  then  prayed  inarticulately  that  his  son  might  pass 
through  the  fire  unscorched. 

When  Alicia  had  come  that  evening  he  was  tempted 
to  confide  in  her.  After  his  first  suspicion  he  regained 
his  old  faith  in  her  love  for  David  and  in  her  womanly 
wisdom.  But  Alicia  denied  him  the  opportunity.  Her 


150  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

face  was  rather  cold,  and  she  turned  with  a  word  of 
farewell. 

"I  must  be  going  back.  I  hope  there  is  nothing 
much  the  matter  with  David." 

Jonathan  watched  her  down  the  lane,  and  then  went 
back  with  a  shake  of  the  head  to  his  workshop. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DAVID  wrestled  with  himself  on  the  lonely  Downs. 
For  twenty-four  hours  now  he  had  been  in  agony  of 
spirit,  and  hardly  sane.  That  sudden  vision  of  Alicia 
and  Stretton  Wingfield  had  snapped  something  in  his 
brain.  He  had  passed  from  blind  passion  to  weak 
tears,  tears  that  moistened  the  turf  upon  which  he  had 
thrown  himself  under  the  stars.  Then  he  had  got  up 
numb  and  cold,  walking  again  with  blank  despair. 
This,  then,  was  the  end  of  all  his  work !  He  had  been 
robbed  of  his  love  by  a  stranger,  who,  in  three  days, 
had  won  easily  what  he,  David,  had  struggled  for  and 
lived  for  during  three  years  at  Oxford,  and  dreamed  of 
since  his  boyhood.  At  times  a  doubt  that  perhaps  he 
had  been  mistaken,  that  perhaps  in  the  half-darkness 
he  had  seen  wrongly,  tortured  him  afresh  because  it 
revived  a  hope  which  in  his  inner  consciousness  he 
knew  to  be  false.  Perhaps  his  excited  imagination  had 
given  him  a  stupid  vision.  Good  God!  what  a  fool  he 
would  be.  ...  But  no!  He  had  seen  clearly  in  the 
moonlight  Alicia's  arm  around  the  man's  waist,  her 
head  against  his  shoulder.  He  had  seen  more  than 
that  ...  the  look  of  happiness  and  love  upon  her  face 
as  it  was  raised  upwards  with  the  pale  light  on  it. 
There  could  be  no  doubt,  unless  he  had  been  mad. 

151 


152  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

He  must  struggle  to  face  this  new  fact  which  had 
wiped  out  his  old  self.  Without  Alicia  as  part  of  his 
scheme  of  life  he  was  no  longer  himself.  He  was  a 
new  man,  a  stranger  with  whom  he  had  no  acquaint- 
ance. He  must  get  to  know  this  unknown.  He  must 
work  out  some  new  scheme  .  .  .  without  Alicia.  He 
must  at  least  play  the  man.  He  must  master  the  fright- 
ful weakness  of  passion  that  was  tearing  at  him  and 
sapping  him.  In  the  midst  of  his  abandonment  he  was 
ashamed.  It  was  not  right  for  any  man  to  have  been 
so  subject  to  woman's  mind,  to  be  the  slave  even  of 
love.  .It  was  not  right!  It  was  utterly  and  damnably 
wrong! 

So  he  argued  and  fought  with  himself,  incoherently, 
at  times  rather  madly,  and  walking  as  though  be- 
witched, in  order  to  get  a  grip  over  the  machine,  to 
steady  his  brain  down  to  a  normal  pace. 

He  must  have  walked  thirty  miles,  tramping  on 
without  a  thought  of  his  whereabouts,  stumbling  down 
the  hollows  of  the  Downs,  staggering  up  to  the  hills, 
and  striding  along  their  heights  like  a  hag-ridden  crea- 
ture. Twice  he  passed  through  a  village  where  not 
a  light  glimmered  in  its  windows,  though  once  a  blind 
was  drawn  and  a  white  face  pressed  against  the  window 
pane  to  watch  his  dark  figure  pass  down  the  street  with 
thudding  footsteps.  It  was  in  the  grey  dawn  when, 
with  damp  hair,  and  wet  with  dew  to  the  knees,  he 
came  back  again  to  Long  Stretton.  And  then  Fate,  or 
God,  or  perhaps  the  Spirit  of  Evil — who  shall  say  which 
or  what? — brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  one  fact 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  153 

which,  by  this  time,  he  had  thrust,  as  a  horrid  thought 
to  be  forgotten,  into  the  dungeons  of  his  brain. 

He  passed  Alicia's  cottage  at  the  corner  of  the  lane 
leading  to  his  father's  shed,  or  rather  he  reached  it 
without  passing.  At  the  very  moment,  as  in  his  weak- 
ness, which  he  had  not  quite  conquered,  he  shuddered 
ever  so  slightly  when  his  eyes  rested  on  the  small 
house  with  the  garden  of  flowers,  which  sent  a  belt  of 
fragrance  across  the  road,  the  door  opened,  and  Alicia 
herself  stood  under  the  light  of  a  red  lamp.  With  her 
in  the  narrow  hall  was  a  man,  who  stepped  down  into 
the  darkness  of  the  garden  path. 

"Can  you  see?    It  is  very  dark! " 

It  was  Alicia's  voice,  low  and  sweet. 

A  man's  laughter  answered  her,  not  loudly.  And 
David  knew  it  was  Stretton. 

"I  can't  see  to  the  end  of  my  nose.  But  I  can 
find  my  way  blindfold.  Good-night,  dear  heart!" 

Alicia  answered  him  good-night,  and  the  red  light 
glowing  dimly  on  her  showed  that  she  kissed  her  hand 
to  the  darkness.  Then  she  shut  the  door. 

Stretton  stepped  out  briskly,  dark  as  it  was,  and 
his  footsteps  made  a  regular  beat  in  the  dusty  road. 
Then  suddenly  he  was  swung  round  by  some  force  that 
leapt  at  him  from  the  black  night. 

He  gasped  out  an  oath  of  terror,  startled  in  his  whole 
being  by  this  sudden  and  unseen  attack. 

David  had  his  shoulder  in  a  clutch  of  iron. 

"Stretton  Wingfield  .  .  .  it's  I  ...  David  Heath 

You  blackguard !  You  blackguard ! " 


154  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Wingfield  was  not  a  coward.  In  wild  places  he  had 
been  attacked  before  swiftly  and  suddenly,  once  by  a 
human  beast,  once  by  a  beast  not  human.  His  brain 
cleared  swiftly,  and  his  jangled  nerves  steadied  with  a 
sort  of  psychological  click. 

"Get  off!" 

He  spoke  fiercely  and  swung  himself  free. 

But  David  had  him  now  by  the  throat. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  Alicia?  Tell  me,  or  I'll 
choke  you. . .  ." 

Stretton  put  his  fist  up,  and  it  struck  David's  face 
with  the  sound  of  a  breaking  plank.  The  blacksmith's 
son  staggered  back,  an  unspoken  word  rattling  in  his 
throat.  Then  in  the  darkness  he  raised  his  arm  swiftly, 
an  arm  that  since  boyhood  had  swung  great  hammers, 
and  it  struck  Stretton  senseless  in  the  road. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  one  of  those  actions  which  a  man  does  perhaps 
once  in  a  lifetime  and  remembers  eternally — surely 
eternally  if  the  soul  is  immortal.  To  David  the  sight 
of  the  dark  thing  lying  stark  in  the  roadway  was  for 
more  than  a  moment  without  meaning.  He  wondered 
at  it.  How  did  it  come  there?  What  had  happened? 
How  chilly  it  was  to-night  1  The  wind  seemed  to 
have  changed  suddenly.  Then  he  remembered.  With 
the  blow  all  anger,  and  passion,  and  doubt  had  left  him. 
He  was  sane  again.  Thank  God  he  was  sane!  And 
there  was  Stretton  Wingfield  in  the  roadway  .  .  .  per- 
haps dead.  God!  Not  dead! 

He  knelt  down,  and  with  steady  hands  lit  a  match 
and  held  it  close  to  the  man's  face.  A  dark  little 
stream  trickled  down  his  forehead  making  a  pool  in 
the  white  dust.  David  put  his  ear  to  Stretton's  mouth. 
God!  Not  a  breath! 

David  did  not  feel  any  sense  of  guilt  or  horror  at 
himself.  He  only  hoped  with  a  great  anxiety  that  the 
man  was  not  dead. 

Then  a  thought  flashed  into  his  brain  and  turned  him 
to  stone. 

"Alicia  loves  this  man!    What  would  she  say  if  he 

155 


156  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

were  dead?  How  Alicia  would  suffer!  He  must  not 
die!  Good  God,  no!  Good  God,  no!" 

With  extraordinary  strength  David  lifted  Stretton 
up — a  sheer  dead-weight — and  putting  him  over  one 
shoulder,  staggered  down  the  lane  till  he  came  to  his 
father's  house  and  shed.  Stumbling  across  the  yard 
with  its  litter  of  scrap-iron  he  got  the  door  of  tht  shed 
open  with  one  heavy  kick,  and  then,  almost  spent,  laid 
down  the  body  on  the  floor.  The  long  room  was  in 
absolute  darkness,  and  for  the  first  time  David  felt 
a  fear  of  the  silent  body  at  his  feet.  Fumbling  for  a 
match,  he  cried  out  in  a  strangled  voice — 

"Father!    Father!" 

In  a  moment  there  was  a  heavy  thud  overhead,  and 
with  a  shout  of  "Coming,  lad,"  the  blacksmith  crashed 
down  the  wooden  stairs  with  an  oil  lamp  in  his  hand. 
He  held  it  over  his  head  so  as  to  throw  its  light  across 
the  room,  and  then  he  saw  a  picture  that  made  him 
falter,  while  the  lamp  waved  wildly  for  a  moment,  as 
though  it  would  fall.  On  the  floor  lay  what  looked  too 
much  like  a  dead  body,  and  David,  white  as  marble, 
stood  above  it,  haggardly. 

Jonathan  put  the  lamp  on  the  table.  "What's  this?" 
he  said. 

"It's  Stretton  Wingfield.    I  believe  I've  killed  him." 

Jonathan  stared  at  his  son  in  a  wondering  way. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  David?" 

"He  spent  the  night  with  Alicia."  David  spoke  with 
the  same  terrible  calm  that  his  father  showed.  Calm 
that  broods  over  troubled  waters. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  157 

"Spent  the  night  with  her?" 

"Yes.  She  loves  him.  D'you  think  he's  dead?  I 
hope  not." 

But  Stretton  Wingfield  was  not  dead.  Presently,  as 
the  two  men  watched  him,  he  moved  his  head  a  little 
and  then  flung  out  an  arm,  groaning.  Jonathan  went 
to  the  sink,  and  soaking  a  cloth,  came  and  wiped  the 
blood  off  Stretton's  face. 

Stretton  opened  his  eyes  and  watched  the  two  faces 
above  him  wonderingly.  They  stared  at  him  silently. 
Only  the  heavy  ticking  of  the  grandfather's  clock 
sounded  in  the  room. 

Then  after  a  minute  Stretton  sat  up. 

"Where  the  devil  am  I?" 

He  put  two  hands  to  his  head  and  groaned.  Then, 
staring  at  David,  he  remembered. 

"You  came  near  to  murder,  my  friend  .  .  .  precious 
near." 

The  two  men  were  still  silent,  watching  him. 

"Why  did  you  do  it,  eh?" 

"I'm  glad  I  didn't  kill  you,"  said  David  quietly. 

Stretton  looked  at  him  with  heavy  eyes.  Then  a 
smile  flickered  on  his  white  lips. 

"You're  a  queer  sort  of  brute!  D'you  often  play 
that  game  in  the  dark?"  He  got  no  answer,  and  there 
was  silence  again.  Stretton  took  the  damp  cloth  and 
pressed  it  to  his  forehead. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  say  something?  Can't  you 
take  your  eyes  off  me?" 

David  breathed  heavily.    The  man's  cool  courage 


158  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

stirred  him  to  something  like  admiration,  and  this 
caused  him  to  hate  him  all  the  more. 

"You  blackguard.  You've  got  less  than  you  de- 
served. I  give  you  fair  warning  ...  if  you  play  the 
knave  with  Alicia  I'll  hurt  you  more  than  I've  done 
now." 

"Fight  in  the  daylight,  you  damned  coward  I  It's 
easy  to  hit  a  man  down  in  the  dark." 

David  flushed  deeply  at  the  taunt. 

"I  strike  a  snake  when  I  see  it." 

Stretton  half  rose  with  a  threatening  arm,  but  his 
head  seemed  to  be  crushed  by  an  iron  band,  and  he  had 
to  shut  his  teeth  to  stop  a  groan. 

"I  got  you  one  on  the  jaw.  That's  a  comfort,  any- 
how!" 

His  eyes  burned  fiercely  at  David. 

"We'll  finish  this  fight  another  time.  If  you'll  meet 
me  at  a  safe  distance  from  Long  Stretton — we  won't 
scandalise  the  village,  my  friend — I'll  wipe  the  floor 
with  you." 

David  laughed  grimly. 

"I  could  choke  you  with  two  fingers." 

Jonathan  broke  into  this  dialogue. 

"Stretton  Wingfield,  if  you're  strong  enough,  I  ask 
you  to  leave  this  house  o'  mine.  If  you  aren't  strong 
enough  I'll  carry  you  out  .  . .  and  I  pray  God  you  may 
never  darken  the  doors  again.  What  you  are  doing 
with  Miss  Alicia — as  good  a  woman  as  ever  stepped — 
rests  between  you  and  her  and  the  Almighty.  If  you 
injure  that  woman's  soul,  'twere  better  a  millstone  were 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  159 

round  about  your  neck.  I'll  finish  what  my  son  has 
begun.  ..." 

Stretton  got  up  from  the  floor,  and  leant  against  the 
wall.  He  was  faint  and  sick,  but  he  struggled  passion- 
ately with  his  weakness. 

"You're  a  nice  pair  of  murderers!  ...  As  for  Alicia, 
if  you  bring  her  name  in,  it'll  be  the  worse  for  you." 

He  stopped  to  breathe  heavily,  then,  swaying  a  little, 
looked  at  David,  less  angrily,  and  with  anxious  eyes. 

"I  warn  you  not  to  hurt  Alicia's  reputation.  If  you 
blab  about  what  you  have  seen  in  the  village  to-night 
you  will  quarrel  with  her  as  well  as  me.  D'you  under- 
stand that?" 

In  spite  of  his  aching  head  his  thoughts  were  clear 
enough  to  see  the  danger  to  himself  if  a  word  of  the 
night's  work  leaked  out  in  Long  Stretton,  and  he  must 
shield  the  girl. 

"Her  reputation  is  safe  with  me,"  said  David,  with 
a  bitter  laugh.  "It's  you  that  she  has  to  fear." 

Stretton  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  don't  bear  you  any  grudge 
for  what's  happened.  I  know  you  love  the  girl.  I'll 
play  straight  with  you.  ...  If  you'll  keep  your  tongue 
quiet  I'll  leave  the  village  to-morrow." 

"What  about  Alicia?" 

"Ay,"  said  Jonathan.    "What  about  her?" 

"We  won't  discuss  that,  my  friends." 

"We  will  discuss  it  ...  by  the  Lord!"  said  David 
passionately. 

Jonathan  checked  him  again. 


160  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Hush,  my  lad!  Alicia  must  look  after  herself. 
She  is  not  a  child  now.  We  are  outside  this  business. 
Let  the  man  go,  and  may  he  show  some  spark  of  con- 
science." 

Stretton  laughed,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"Good-night.    Remember  what  I  say." 

He  staggered  and  held  on  to  the  doorpost. 

"I'd  best  come  with  you,"  said  Jonathan.  "You're 
still  weak." 

"Thanks.    I'll  go  alone." 

The  two  men  listened  to  his  footsteps  stumbling 
across  the  courtyard. 

David  Heath  leant  forward  over  his  knees  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  XX 

STRETTON  WINGFIELD  had  his  faults,  but  he  was  not 
a  coward.  He  came  from  a  fighting  stock,  and  in  his 
adventures  had  only  shown  the  white  feather  when 
strictly  necessary  to  save  his  skin.  Of  course,  not  one 
of  his  more  remote  ancestors  would  have  considered  it 
necessary  to  save  his  skin  by  such  a  symbol,  whatever 
the  situation;  but  Wingfield,  it  must  be  remembered, 
lived  in  a  common-sense  age  when  life's  vital  spark  is 
not  to  be  extinguished  upon  a  sentimental  issue.  It 
must  not  therefore  be  accounted  unto  him  for  cowardice 
that  after  the  episode  of  last  night  he  was  anxious  to 
leave  Long  Stretton  at  the  earliest  moment.  He  had  no 
physical  fear  of  David  Heath,  but  as  he  argued  to 
himself  in  his  bedroom,  while  bathing  his  head  in  hot 
water,  it  was  "devilish  awkward"  to  stay  in  the  same 
village  with  a  barbarian  raging  with  jealousy  and  dog- 
ging the  neighbourhood  of  Alicia's  cottage.  He  already 
knew  their  secret.  Stretton  did  not  blink  at  the  fact 
that  David  had  seen  him  come  out  of  the  cottage  in 
the  early  dawn  and  had  drawn  undeniable  conclusions. 
Possibly  he  would  not  keep  the  secret  to  himself.  To 
keep  any  secret  in  a  village  requires  infinite  tact,  and 
young  Heath  seemed  to  him  the  most  tactless  person 
Stretton  had  had  the  misfortune  to  meet.  For  Alicia's 

161 


162  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

sake  as  well  as  for  his  own  he  must  change  his  camp. 
It  was  seriously  of  importance  that  the  little  aunts 
should  be  kept  in  ignorance  of  what  had  passed.  He 
could  not  do  without  their  contributions  to  an  income 
already  too  small  for  his  needs. 

Being  a  man  of  quick  decision,  Stretton  acted  at 
once.  At  breakfast  he  had  three  letters  and  a  telegram. 
The  last  was  from  his  friend  Edward  Moorhouse,  who 
wired:  "What  the  blazes  are  you  doing?  Can't  move 
without  you"  It  was  a  good  excuse. 

Stretton  folded  it  face  downwards  on  the  table  and 
looked  across  to  Miss  Cecily,  who  was  pouring  out  the 
coffee.  It  was  then  eleven  o'clock,  and  both  the  ladies 
had  had  breakfast  three  hours  before,  but  they  liked 
to  sit  with  Stretton  while  he  had  his  leisurely  meal. 

"I'm  sorry,  Aunt,  I  must  go  to  town  at  once.  There's 
a  twelve  train,  isn't  there?" 

Miss  Cecily  put  down  a  cup  hurriedly. 

"Stretton!  and  I  have  arranged  a  garden  party  this 
very  afternoon  in  your  honour! " 

"Oh,  you  really  cannot  go,"  said  Miss  Cecily.  "Our 
guests  would  think  us  mad!" 

"A  thousand  apologies,  dear  ladies,"  said  Stretton 
firmly.  "If  the  whole  county  were  coming  this  after- 
noon they  would  have  to  do  without  my  insignificant 
self.  My  whole  career  depends  upon  an  interview  this 
afternoon.  I  have  been  wired  for  by  my  political 
chief.  It  is  most  important." 

"Teddy"  Moorhouse,  as  he  was  invariably  called  at 
the  "Travellers',"  would  have  howled  with  laughter  at 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  163 

his  title  of  "political  chief."  At  Eton  he  had  fagged 
humbly  to  Stretton  Wingfield,  and  at  Oxford  Wingfield 
had  graciously  favoured  him  with  an  intellectual  com- 
panionship. As  a  hopeless  duffer  in  anything  but 
sport,  Teddy  had  a  profound  reverence  for  Wingfield's 
superior  wisdom.  This,  however,  was  unknown  to  the 
aunts,  and  when  Stretton  mentioned  the  name  of  Lord 
Edward  Moorhouse  they  were  duly  impressed — and 
depressed. 

"I  suppose  you  cannot  possibly  wire  'Unavoidably 
detained'  or  'Family  reasons  prevent?' "  said  Miss 
Agnes. 

"Impossible!  dear  Aunt." 

Miss  Cecily  cried  a  little. 

"After  all  our  letters  about  you!  We  shall  look  so 
very  foolish." 

Stretton,  however,  was  resolute,  and  the  aunts  re- 
signed themselves  to  a  disappointment  which  in  their 
quiet  lives  was  naturally  more  bitter  than  seemed  at 
all  justified  to  Stretton. 

It  was  half -past  eleven  when  he  had  finished  break- 
fast, and  he  had  but  half-an-hour  in  which  to  get  his 
bag  packed — Blinkworthy  gasped  at  the  idea  of  per- 
forming the  task  in  less  than  an  hour — to  write  a  letter 
to  Alicia,  and  to  rattle  the  trap  down  to  the  station. 
That  gave  him  ten  minutes  all  told  in  the  house.  Blink- 
worthy  begged  to  say  that  to  pack  a  portmanteau  re- 
spectably in  ten  minutes  was  not  possible,  even  to  an 
archangel.  Stretton — in  the  smoking-room,  where  he 
seized  pen  and  notepaper — told  him  not  to  be  a  silly 


164  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

old  idiot,  but  to  get  the  job  done — sharp.  Shutting  the 
door  on  the  grumbling  old  gentleman,  he  sat  down  to 
write  a  letter  that  was  not  easy  even  to  a  man  who  had 
two  novels  to  his  name.  But  there  was  no  time  for 
style,  and  in  five  minutes  he  sealed  the  envelope  with 
a  sigh  that  was  half  regret  for  the  literary  opportunity 
that  had  been  wasted  through  want  of  time  and  half 
satisfaction  at  a  delicate  task  not  quite  unsuccessfully 
achieved. 

"My  DEAR  LADY  OF  THE  MIST, 

"(I  shall  always  think  of  you  as  rising  out  of 
the  dew-pond  on  the  Great  Downs  as  Love  out  of  the 
sea-foam,  a  vision  to  me  of  infinite  beauty,  cleansing 
to  a  heart  too  familiar  with  the  ugly  things  of  life.) 

"I  write  my  first  letter  to  you,  as  I  am  leaving  Long 
Stretton  by  the  twelve  o'clock  train — in  twenty  min- 
utes' time  from  now.  I  have  been  called  suddenly  to 
town.  I  go  because  to-night  I  will  take  the  first  step  in 
the  career  of  my  future  life.  As  you  will  share  that 
life,  it  is  for  you  that  I  go,  though  my  grief  is  infinite 
that  I  cannot  hold  your  dear  body  in  my  arms  and  tell 
you  that  your  spirit  is  my  guidance,  now  and  always. 
You  know  this,  do  you  not?  I  need  not  ask  you  to 
have  faith  in  me.  It  is  your  faith  which  gives  me  good 
confidence  in  what,  for  you  and  for  me,  will,  I  believe, 
be  a  future  full  of  joy. 

"STRETTON  WINGFIELD. 

"P.S. — You  will  remember  what  I  said  about  the 
aunts.  You  must  keep  our  secret." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  165 

It  was  a  little  ragged,  and  the  grammar  would  hardly 
bear  analysis,  but  to  write  a  letter  such  as  this  in  five 
minutes  is  not  a  thing  that  many  men  could  do,  even 
so  well.  At  least  Stretton  thought  so,  and  it  cheered 
him  a  little.  While  the  words  slipped  from  his  pen  he 
had  realised — what  he  had  not  done  before  in  the  in- 
tellectual activity  of  the  early  morning — that  he  would 
not  see  Alicia  for — for  how  long?  He  pondered  over 
the  question.  For  how  long?  He  could  not  find  an 
answer,  and  a  sudden  sense  of  guiltiness  and  shame 
surged  through  him.  He  took  up  the  letter  and  made  a 
motion  to  tear  it  up.  Yes,  by  God,  he  would  not  gol 
He  would  play  the  game  straight.  The  world  was  well 
lost  for  Alicia. 

But  Fate  intervened  in  the  person  of  Blinkworthy. 

"Your  bag  is  packed,  sir." 

There  was  a  gleam  of  triumph  in  the  old  man's 
eye.  He  had  accomplished  the  impossible! 

Stretton  saw  the  hand  of  Fate. 

"Good  man!"  he  cried. 

In  three  minutes  he  said  good-bye  to  his  aunts. 

Miss  Agnes  embraced  him  with  all  the  fortitude  of 
a  Roman  matron  saying  farewell  to  her  warrior  son, 
but  Miss  Cecily  clung  to  his  hand,  crying  with  red 
eyes.  The  elder  lady  slipped  an  envelope  into  his  hand. 
In  the  train  afterwards  he  found  that  it  covered  a 
check  for  a  hundred  pounds,  and  he  blessed  her  as  a 
good  soul. 

"Come  again  soon,  dear  Stretton.  Your  visit  has  put 
new  life  into  us,"  said  Miss  Agnes. 


166  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"We  shall  be  m-m-miserable  without  you,"  said  poor 
little  Aunt  Cecily. 

He  embraced  them  both,  feeling  very  tender  towards 
them.  They  were  dear  ladies.  Then  distributing 
largesse  to  the  servants,  with  the  artificial  secrecy 
requisite  for  this  ceremony,  he  sprang  into  the  trap,  and 
shaking  the  ribbons,  frisked  up  the  cob  and  was  away. 
The  groom,  who  was  also  under-gardener,  a  man  of 
fifty,  and  a  mere  youth  compared  to  the  other  servants, 
clung  on  to  his  seat,  and  prayed  fervently  to  the  Lord 
that  he  might  reach  the  station  alive. 

At  the  market-place  Stretton  pulled  the  cob  on  to 
its  haunches,  and  leant  down  to  hand  his  letter  to  a 
small  boy,  who  narrowly  escaped  sudden  death,  and 
not  knowing  the  peril  stared  at  the  cart  with  open 
mouth. 

"Look  here,  Tommy,  take  that  to  Miss  Frensham, 
and  here's  sixpence  for  you.  Understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy. 

"Who  have  you  got  to  give  it  to?" 

"School  marm." 

"Right,  and  don't  you  forget." 

The  trap  swayed  again,  and  Robert  the  groom  was 
nearly  pitched  out.  But  by  the  blessing  of  God,  or 
sheer  luck,  they  reached  the  corner  and  steered  a 
straight  course  for  the  station.  Once  more  Stretton 
pulled  up  the  panting  cob. 

It  stopped  by  the  side  of  David  Heath,  who  was 
walking  with  a  steady  pace  along  the  dusty  road. 

"Morning!"  said  Stretton  cheerfully. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  167 

David  looked  up  at  him  and  did  not  answer.  His 
mouth  hardened  a  little,  and  he  stepped  back  on  to 
the  path. 

"I  am  just  off  to  town.  You'll  forget  what  hap- 
pened last  night?  You  won't  tell  any  one?" 

He  spoke  lightly  in  order  not  to  rouse  the  suspicion 
of  the  groom,  but  his  eyes  were  anxious. 

"I  shall  not  forget,"  said  David  slowly.  Then  with 
a  grim,  contemptuous  laugh,  "But  I  won't  tell.  Don't 
be  afraid." 

"Good  man!    I  thought  you  wouldn't." 

He  used  the  whip,  and  in  a  moment  had  left  David 
on  the  roadside.  For  a  mile  he  gave  the  horse  no 
mercy,  but  slackened  within  sight  of  the  station,  and 
caught  the  train  with  a  minute  to  spare. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  Alicia  opened  the  letter  from  Stretton — her 
instinct  told  her  it  was  from  him  when  she  saw  the 
florid,  picturesque  writing  on  the  envelope — it  was  not 
with  the  ordinary  emotion  of  a  girl  who  receives  her 
first  love  letter.  She  became  white,  and  trembled, 
possessed  by  fears.  The  small  boy  had  told  her  that 
it  was  from  the  gentleman  down  at  the  Hall  who  was 
a-driving  like  mad  to  the  station. 

So  ...  he  was  leaving  Long  Stretton  .  .  .  sud- 
denly .  .  .  though  yesterday — or  rather  this  very  morn- 
ing, after  midnight,  he  said  that  he  would  stay  another 
week! 

What  did  it  mean? 

She  read  the  letter  slowly,  and  then  laid  it  down 
on  the  round  table,  staring  with  serious  eyes  through 
the  open  window  to  the  brown  hills  beyond.  So  he 
was  gone  .  .  .  and  she  had  the  memory  of  those  four 
days  and  nights  which  had  changed  her  life  much  more 
than  the  four  years  preceding  them! 

But  she  had  more  than  the  memory,  she  had  faith 
and  hope — faith  in  Stretton's  love,  and  hope  in  a 
future  meeting  with  him,  when  there  would  be  no  such 
sad  parting  as  this. 

Faith  in  his  love.    She  clung  to  that.    She  would 

168 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  169 

not  have  acted  as  she  had  done  without  absolute  faith. 
And  yet  faith  may  be  built  upon  doubts,  and  upon  the 
knowledge  that  it  exists  because  of  doubt.  For  faith 
is  not  the  belief  in  facts  we  can  see  plainly  before  our 
eyes.  It  is  the  passionate  assertion  of  the  soul  in  a 
truth  beyond  the  proof  and  test  of  facts  that  can  be 
seen  and  touched  and  demonstrated. 

Alicia  had  yielded  to  Stretton's  love  because  her 
soul  demanded  such  yielding.  Yet  she  knew  him  to 
be  weak,  to  be  easily  led  by  the  passing  mood  or  pas- 
sion, to  be  insincere  to  himself,  more  often  uncon- 
sciously than  consciously.  She  knew  that  he  was  a 
dangerous  man  for  any  woman  who  gave  her  heart  into 
his  keeping.  She  had  listened  quietly  while  he  talked, 
sometimes  excitedly,  sometimes  boastfully,  and  always 
egotistically,  and  she  had  weighed  him  in  her  mind,  and 
found  him  wanting  in  that  sureness  of  principle  and 
fixity  of  purpose  which  were  her  own  characteristics. 
If  she  had  had  a  sister,  and  often  she  imagined  how 
blessed  that  would  be  to  her,  she  would  have  been 
terrified  at  the  thought  of  such  a  man  as  Stretton  com- 
ing into  the  girl's  life.  She  would  have  warned  her,  on 
bended  knees  if  necessary,  to  beware  of  him.  Her 
heart  fluttered,  and  sank  down  at  the  thought  that 
Stretton  had  only  perhaps  played  with  her,  and  now 
was  leaving  her,  perhaps  for  ever.  But  her  soul  was 
stronger  than  the  weakness  of  her  heart.  She  was 
sure — she  was  sure  of  his  love.  She  had  faith  in  the 
power  of  love,  which — however  base  or  weak  may  be 
the  man  or  woman — is  a  natural,  a  spiritual  attraction, 


170  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

stronger  and  more  binding  than  principles,  or  honour, 
or  laws,  or  ceremonies.  That  was  her  creed,  for  which 
she  would  suffer  even  death  gladly. 

Oh,  but  it  was  sadl  He  had  left  her — for  how 
long? — and  she  was  alone.  He  would  send  for  her, 
but  she  must  wait  in  loneliness  after  his  blessed  com- 
panionship. 

He  was  weak  .  .  .  she  could  not  hide  that,  but  he 
was  kind.  He  was  an  egoist,  but  gay,  and  exquisitely 
genial.  He  was  tempted  to  boast,  but  he  had  little 
tendernesses  and  a  charm  of  manner  that  warmed  one's 
heart  in  his  presence.  He  had  been  passionate,  his 
love  had  been  a'  flame  at  times,  but  it  was  an  ethereal 
fire  that  had  not  left  her  scorched,  filling  her  rather 
with  infinite  sweetness. 

She  had  nothing  now  but  the  dream  of  a  dream  .  .  . 
and  the  great  hope.  She  would  wait  patiently.  That 
was  part  of  her  creed — to  wait  ...  if  need  be  for  a 
lifetime . . .  until  the  meeting  on  the  other  side  of  death. 

She  would  give  him  the  uttermost  loyalty  however 
long  he  kept  her  waiting,  and  when  one  day  he  said 
"Come"  she  would  go  to  him  on  the  instant  with  a 
heart  in  which  his  image  had  lain  as  in  a  shrine.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  secret  between  them.  No  one  in  the 
world  knew  of  their  love;  she  was  glad  of  that,  though, 
as  a  rule,  she  hated  secrecy.  But  love  was  in  itself 
so  sacred  and  secret  that  publicity  seemed  to  her  like 
sacrilege.  She  had  often  wondered,  and  sometimes 
blushed,  at  young  girls  talking  and  gossiping  about  their 
lovers.  It  seemed  like  exhibiting  their  naked  souls  in 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  171 

the  market-place.  She  was  glad  that  there  was  some 
necessity  for  secrecy.  She  would  have  hated  con- 
gratulations from  village  people,  to  have  been  obliged 
to  answer  them  with  silly  smiles,  knowing  how  shy  and 
sad  a  thing  love  is.  Now  she  could  be  alone  with  her 
little  lamp,  worshipping  at  the  flame  in  solitude.  .  .  . 

How  lonely  it  was!  .  .  .  How  empty  the  chair  looked 
where  Stretton  had  sat  such  a  few  hours  ago!  And 
though  she  must  wait  for  him  patiently,  how  far  away 
to-morrow  morning  seemed  when  to-night  Stretton 
would  not  come  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her 
lips  .  .  .  How  long!  .  .  . 

She  turned  from  the  window,  suddenly  roused  by  a 
conflict  of  emotions  tearing  wildly  at  her  heart,  though 
she  had  seemed  to  think  so  calmly.  She  fell  on  to  her 
knees,  and  with  her  head  upon  the  little  sofa,  and  her 
arms  clasping  its  cushions,  wept  silently,  convulsively, 
until  she  was  exhausted  with  her  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THAT  evening  David  called  upon  Alicia;.  He  looked 
pale  and  older  since  she  had  last  seen  him,  though  it 
was  but  a  short  time.  The  lines  had  deepened  under 
his  eyes,  and  his  mouth  seemed  harder  and  more 
resolute,  though,  indeed  it  had  never  been  weak.  Alicia 
saw  at  once  an  indefinable  difference  in  him,  and  for  a 
few  moments  while  they  talked  quietly  she  wondered 
with  vague  uneasiness  as  to  the  cause  of  this  change. 

Then  he  explained  it  simply,  without  embarrass- 
ment, and  she  was  reassured. 

"I've  been  ill.  It  was  very  stupid,  a  sort  of  nervous 
breakdown  after  hard  work,  I  suppose.  A  black- 
smith's son  with  nerves!" 

He  laughed,  though  his  eyes  were  serious  as  he 
watched  her. 

"Dear  friend!"  said  Alicia  very  tenderly.  "Of 
course  you  must  be  run  down  after  your  big  grind  at 
Oxford.  You  must  rest,  and  get  all  your  strength  back 
before  starting  your  new  life  in  London." 

After  the  excitement  of  her  love  for  Stretton  it  was 
infinitely  soothing  to  have  this  quiet  friendship  with 
David.  Her  secret,  which  was  a  fire  within  her, 
seemed  to  give  a  new  warmth  and  tenderness  to  this 
old  companionship.  She  felt  more  of  a  mother's  love 

172 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  173 

for  David  because  her  heart  had  been  kindled  by  a 
spiritual  passion  for  the  other  man.  She  was  so  glad 
that  it  would  make  no  difference  between  David  and 
herself.  Foolishly,  she  had  been  afraid.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  to  get  a  rest  before  taking  up  my  new  work, 
but  it  won't  be  in  Long  Stretton." 

"No!" 

Alicia  gave  a  little  gasp  of  surprise. 

"Canon  Bentley  has  asked  me  to  stay  with  him  in 
town  for  a  few  weeks  so  that  I  may  be  inspired  with 
his  ideals  and  follow  in  his  footsteps  at  Erasmus  Hall ! 
He  doesn't  put  it  like  that,  but  that's  what  he  means." 

"Oh  .  .  .  then  you  are  leaving  the  village,  too?" 
said  Alicia,  with  a  sudden  despondency.  She  had  so 
hoped  that  with  David  her  parting  from  Stretton  would 
be  solaced  by  this  good  friendship. 

David  noticed  that  she  had  said,  "You  are  leaving 
the  village,  too?"  The  word  stabbed  him,  and  he 
flushed  to  the  temples.  But  he  had  worked  out  a  new 
philosophy,  in  great  travail  of  spirit,  after  the  mad, 
tempestuous  passion  of  which  he  was  now  sick  and 
ashamed.  He  had  laid  down  for  himself  the  law  of 
self-sacrifice.  Having  abandoned  his  hopes,  he  would 
at  least  suck  the  bitter  sweetness  of  resignation.  And  if 
he  could  not  have  the  blessedness  of  Alicia's  love  he 
would  not  deny  himself  her  friendship.  He  would  be 
loyal  to  that  though  his  heart  bled  to  death.  He  be- 
lieved that  in  the  future  Alicia  would  need  his  friend- 
ship, would  need  at  least  some  honest  man  to  advise 


174  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

her  in  despair.  An  infinite  pity,  a  ghastly  fear  for  her 
stifled  his  selfishness  and  purified  him. 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  can't  stay  at  home  for  some 
months,"  he  said.  "I  have  looked  forward  so  eagerly 
to  long  walks  and  talks  with  you.  But  I  can  hardly 
refuse  the  Canon's  wish.  It  is  almost  a  command,  and 
I  have  accepted  service  under  him." 

"Oh  ...  of  course,  of  course,"  said  Alicia  quickly. 
"You  must  think  only  of  your  work,  of  your  future. 
But  I  am  disappointed  in  a  selfish  way.  ...  I  shall 
be  very  lonely  .  .  .  and  just  now  I  want  the  comfort 
of  your  dear  friendship." 

David  was  frightfully  moved  by  her  words.  This 
tenderness,  this  leaning  upon  him  was  almost  unbear- 
able in  its  sweetness. 

"In  London,  or  wherever  in  the  world,"  he  said 
huskily,  "I  am  your  friend  always.  If  ever  you  are 
in  any  kind  of  trouble,  if  I  can  help  you  by  any  serv- 
ices, you  know  that  I  would  walk  barefoot  on  thorns  to 
come  to  you." 

Alicia  reached  for  his  hand,  and  her  tears  fell  upon  it. 

"I  am  blest  to  have  such  friendship,"  she  said.  "It 
is  a  precious  gift." 

Then  suddenly,  the  meaning  that  lay  behind  his 
words  dawned  upon  her.  Still  holding  his  hand  she 
looked  up  at  him  wonderingly,  and  white  to  the  lips. 

"You  know?"  she  whispered.  "You  know  what  has 
happened?" 

David  went  to  the  window,  white  also. 

"Yes,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  know." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  175 

There  was  silence  between  them,  and  David  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  seeing  nothing. 

"How  did  you  know,  David?"  said  Alicia  presently. 
"I  thought  ...  I  hoped  ...  we  had  kept  our  secret." 

"I  saw  you  in  the  wood  together,"  said  David  in 
a  strangled  voice,  still  staring  into  the  garden,  "...  and 
afterwards  I  saw  him  leave  your  house  ...  in  the 
dawn." 

Alicia  bent  her  head,  while  a  deep  flush  crept  into  her 
cheeks.  She  thought  silently  and  swiftly.  It  seemed 
to  David  that  the  world  was  swimming  round  him, 
and  it  made  him  feel  sick. 

"Does  any  one  else  know?" 

"My  father  ...  we  will  not  tell." 

Alicia  rose  and  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  he 
started  as  though  awakened  from  a  sleep. 

"You  understand?  .  .  .  You  do  not  blame  me?" 

David  gripped  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  his  eyes  met 
those  of  Alicia,  which  were  dim  with  tears.  He 
breathed  heavily  and  almost  noisily,  and  a  blue  vein 
throbbed  in  his  forehead. 

"I  do  not  blame  you.  .  .  .  Good  God!  who  am 
I  ...  to  blame  you?  .  .  .  You  are  a  saint.  Your  purity 
would  shame  the  devil.  .  .  .  But  you  are  too  innocent. 
You  do  not  understand  what  you  are  doing.  Don't 
you  see  ...  don't  you  see  that  Stretton  Wingfield  will 
destroy  you,  and  will  drag  you  down  to  the  dirt?  He 
is  ruthless  ...  oh,  he  is  a  ruthless  hound !  I  know  that 
type  of  man,  charming  and  weak  and  hellish  in  their 
selfishness.  Alicia  .  .  Alicia!  For  God's  sake  . 


176  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

think  what  you  are  doing  .  .  .  draw  back  before  it  is 
too  late!" 

He  had  begun  quietly,  determined  to  keep  himself 
in  check,  but  his  fierce  emotion  broke  down  his  self- 
restraint  and  surged  into  his  brain  so  that  at  the  end 
his  words  were  loud  and  passionate  in  their  appeal. 

Alicia  turned  to  the  fireplace  and  put  her  hands  on 
the  mantel-board,  with  her  forehead  against  them.  "I 
cannot  draw  back.  It  is  already  too  late." 

David  stared  at  her,  an  expression  of  horror  gradu- 
ally blanching  his  face. 

"Already  .  .  .  too  late!"  he  whispered  hoarsely; 
"  .  .  .oh,  my  God!" 

He  gave  an  awful  groan,  and  sinking  into  the  chair 
behind  him  let  his  head  fall  upon  his  chest,  a  haggard 
and  broken  man. 

Alicia  crossed  from  the  fireplace  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"David,"  she  said  gently,  "do  not  be  frightened  on 
mjy  account.  Stretton  is  not  such  a  man  as  you 
imagine.  His  love  for  me  is  perfectly  sincere  and 
pure.  I  have  faith  in  him." 

David  groaned  again. 

"Do  you  not  trust  me?"  said  Alicia,  with  a  note  of 
anger  in  her  voice.  "Do  you  not  believe  me  when  I 
say  that  this  love  is  the  proudest,  most  joyful  thing  in 
my  life?  Oh,  you  are  like  the  others!  You  imagine 
ugly  and  horrid  things.  You  do  not  understand  the 
meaning  of  love!  You  judge  and  condemn  because 
you  have  no  charity,  nor  faith  in  human  nature." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  177 

David  lifted  his  head.  Her  angry  words  sobered 
him,  and  he  remembered  his  secret  vows  and  resolu- 
tions. Had  he  not  said  to  himself  that  he  would  be  the 
true  friend  of  this  woman? 

"Alicia,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice,  "do  not  be  angry. 
I  should  not  have  spoken  like  that  ...  I  was  a  brute! 
...  I  do  not  judge  or  condemn.  And  I  understand 
your  perfect  goodness.  I  pray  to  God  that  man  will 
be  worthy  of  you ! " 

Alicia  burst  into  tears  and  wept  hysterically,  so  that 
David  was  frightened. 

"Alicia!  .  .  .Alicia!  .  .  .Alicia!" 

He  repeated  her  name  pleadingly,  soothingly, 
tenderly. 

Presently  she  grew  calmer,  and  brushed  her  tears 
away,  trying  to  laugh. 

"I  am  very  foolish.  .  .  .  But  I  could  not  bear  to 
hear  what  you  thought  of  Stretton." 

"Don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said  David 
quietly.  "Only  remember  that  nothing  may  ever  break 
our  friendship." 

"I  know  that,  David.    You  are  the  best  of  friends." 

They  talked  of  other  things,  of  the  garden,  and  the 
gossip  of  the  village.  David  told  one  or  two  stories  of 
Oxford,  and  Alicia  laughed.  In  half  an  hour  no  one 
looking  in  upon  them  would  have  guessed  the  passion- 
ate little  drama  that  had  been  played  in  the  room. 

"And  when  do  you  go  to  town?"  said  Alicia  presently. 

"To-morrow  morning,  early." 

"So  soon?" 


178  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

She  became  very  grave,  and  her  lips  trembled,  but 
she  mastered  herself  and  spoke  hopefully,  enthusiasti- 
cally of  his  future. 

"You  will  write  to  me — often?" 

"How  often?"  said  David,  smiling. 

"Once  a  week,  without  fail,  David?" 

"I  promise." 

When  he  said  good-bye  to  her  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  read  many  things  which  neither  said. 

At  the  door  she  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and 
as  he  bent  his  head  she  kissed  him  twice  on  the  fore- 
head. 

"Good-bye,  my  friend,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ALICIA  was  more  lonely  than  ever  in  her  life  before 
when  David  and  Stretton  had  both  left  the  village. 
Her  loneliness  was  partly  of  her  own  making.  In 
spite  of  repeated  invitations  she  avoided  going  up  to 
the  Hall,  as  much  as  she  could  without  actual  dis- 
courtesy to  the  two  ladies.  On  the  Wednesday  eve- 
nings which  they  set  apart  for  their  At  Home  nights 
she  pleaded  a  headache,  or  home-lessons  to  correct,  or 
letters  to  write.  The  truth  was  that  she  felt  a  hypocrite 
and  a  false  friend  in  the  presence  of  the  Wingfield 
ladies.  For  many  weeks  after  Stretton's  departure  he 
was  the  constant  subject  of  their  conversation.  They 
asked  Alicia  her  opinion  of  him.  They  lamented  that 
he  was  such  a  bad  correspondent,  only  dashing  off  a 
few  lines  at  rare  intervals.  They  wondered  often  what 
the  work  was  upon  which,  as  he  said,  he  was  so  fright- 
fully busy.  Such  conversations  as  these  were  pain- 
fully disconcerting  to  Alicia.  She  felt  that  the  sim- 
plicity of  her  nature  was  being  warped  by  the  secret  of 
her  relations  with  Stretton,  of  which  these  two  dear 
ladies  were  utterly  innocent.  Though  she  parried  their 
questions  and  sat  silent  while  they  talked  of  Stretton, 
she  was  tortured  by  the  thought  that  she  was  living  a 
lie.  She  would  have  liked  to  take  each  one  apart  and 

179 


180  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

make  confession.  Sometimes  when  Miss  Cecily  spoke 
to  her  alone  and  intimately,  in  the  little  bedroom  up- 
stairs, it  was  almost  painful  to  check  the  words  which 
would  have  dispelled  this  horrid  secrecy.  During  the 
first  two  months  of  his  absence  she  heard  from  Stretton 
frequently,  though  not  with  the  weekly  regularity  of 
David.  Long  letters  full  of  details  about  his  move- 
ments day  by  day,  his  plans,  his  ambitions,  his  most  in- 
timate thoughts.  So  when  Miss  Agnes  or  Miss  Cecily 
craved  to  hear  from  him,  and  sighed  that  he  kept  them 
so  much  in  ignorance,  it  was  hard  for  Alicia  to  keep 
silent,  to  say  nothing  of  what  she  knew.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  accused  herself  of  deceitfulness,  and 
was  humiliated  in  her  own  eyes.  She  was  tempted 
often  to  write  to  Stretton  begging  to  be  released  from 
her  pledge  of  secrecy,  but  she  knew  that  he  considered 
it  most  necessary  for  his  own  sake — twice  in  his  letters 
he  laid  stress  on  the  importance  of  it — and  she  knew 
in  sober  thought  that  any  revelation  to  the  two  ladies 
would  be  unwise  at  this  time.  Miss  Cecily,  no  doubt, 
would  be  led  to  sympathise,  in  her  pretty  sentimental 
way,  but  Miss  Agnes,  who  was  as  firm  as  a  rock  when 
what  she  called  her  principles  were  involved,  would 
certainly  not  continue  her  favours  to  Stretton.  The 
fact  that  Stretton's  relation's  with  Alicia  had  been  kept 
secret  from  the  beginning,  and  had  been  established 
without  any  of  "the  proprieties,"  would  be  a  scandal 
and  an  outrage  to  this  sensitive  and  decorous  soul.  No  I 
for  Stretton's  sake  Alicia  must  keep  silent. 
Her  loneliness  was  increased  because  the  Vicar 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  181 

avoided  her  strenuously,  and  she  on  her  side  could  not 
forget  or  forgive  the  scene  in  which  he  had  discovered 
his  curious  passion.  When  they  met  now  he  lifted  his 
hat,  but  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground.  Occasionally 
they  encountered  each  other  in  the  cottages,  but 
then  only  a  few  conventional  phrases  passed  between 
them. 

And  Jonathan  was  no  longer  the  good  friend  he  had 
been.  She  went  sometimes  to  his  forge,  but  she  realised 
that  the  bonds  of  affection  between  them  had  been 
snapped,  and  not  by  her,  but  by  him.  He  was  silent 
and  abstracted  when  she  came,  sometimes  even  sullen. 
He  seemed  to  eye  her  with  distrust  and  disapproval, 
and  knowing  that  he  knew  her  secret  and  resented  it, 
she  was  embarrassed  and  self-conscious  with  him.  So 
gradually  she  went  less  often,  though  it  pained  her 
excessively  that  this  friendship  should  have  grown 
cold. 

She  lived  more  and  more  with  her  own  thoughts,  and 
her  face  began  to  show  the  influence  of  this  intro- 
spective life.  Her  eyes  became  more  luminous  and 
dark,  and  an  air  of  mysticism  about  her,  which  had 
always  been  characteristic  of  her  in  serious  moods,  was 
now  more  settled  in  its  Rossetti-like  expression.  She 
was  kept  alive,  as  it  were,  by  her  letters  from  Stretton, 
and  from  David,  too.  The  postman's  knock  now  beat 
upon  her  heart,  for  though  David's  letter  came  regu- 
larly every  Wednesday  morning,  Stretton's  came  at  all 
times,  flying  notes  of  a  few  lines,  then  a  pause  of  a 
few  days,  sometimes  of  more  than  a  week,  until,  when 


182  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

she  began  to  pine,  a  long  budget  would  come  of  many 
closely-written  pages. 

She  read  them  with  a  fluttering  heart. 

They  were  passionate  at  first,  written  late  at  night, 
when  imagination  is  excited  by  the  silence  that  follows 
a  noisy  day,  and  when  words  flow  on  to  the  paper  with- 
out premeditation  or  restraint.  She  could  see  how 
the  pen  had  moved  swiftly,  covering  the  sheets  with  a 
running  style.  His  expressions  were  vivid  and  heated. 
His  choice  of  words  was  unconventional  though  not 
strained.  He  used  metaphors  a  little  far-fetched,  yet 
perfectly  expressive.  He  dashed  off  quick  sketches  and 
lightning  impressions. 

At  times  he  was  very  merry  and  wrote  nonsense  let- 
ters filled  with  paradox  and  epigrams  and  fantastic 
caricatures.  But  at  the  beginning  he  was  ardent  and 
sensuous,  and  put  such  a  warmth  of  love  into  his  words 
that  Alicia  read  them  with  a  flushed  face,  while  her 
pulse  throbbed  nervously;  and  when  she  went  to  bed 
with  his  letter  under  her  pillow  the  words  burned 
through  their  covering  into  her  brain,  so  that  she  tossed 
feverishly  through  the  night. 

From  the  turmoil  and  tumult  of  his  days  she  un- 
ravelled the  thread  of  his  plot.  He  was  playing  for 
the  leadership  of  the  new  party  of  Independent  Demo- 
crats or  Individualists,  as  they  began  to  be  called,  a 
name  ridiculed  and  scoffed  at  in  both  the  Ministerial 
and  Opposition  papers,  but  recognised,  in  spite  of 
caricatures,  as  a  possible  "Third  Party"  in  the  House. 
He  sketched  out  the  political  situation  for  her.  There 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  183 

had  been  a  reaction  in  the  tide  for  Socialism.  The  cam- 
paign against  the  House  of  Lords  and  the  attack  upon 
landowners  had  turned  over  public  favour  to  the  Con- 
stitutionalists. There  was  every  prospect  that  the 
women  would  give  their  votes  to  the  Government,  and 
in  that  case  the  Constitutionalists  would  come  back 
with  a  more  respectable  majority  than  they  now  held. 
The  Ministers  were  prophesying  a  sweeping  victory, 
but  it  was  certain  that  they  were  afraid  of  the  Inde- 
pendent Democrats,  who,  as  a  middle  party,  might 
capture  many  seats.  They  were  putting  up  candidates 
in  most  of  the  boroughs,  and  Stretton's  energy  and 
oratory  already  marked  him  out  as  a  possible  leader  of 
the  new  party.  His  name,  and  his  father's  fame,  which 
still  lingered  as  a  tradition,  counted  for  much.  It  was 
certain  also  that  as  the  nephew  of  the  Minister  for  War, 
his  independent  stand  against  the  Government  had  a 
piquancy  which  was  at  least  an  excellent  advertisement. 
In  the  Press  they  called  him,  among  other  nick- 
names, "Individual  Wingfield,"  and  in  The  World  there 
was  an  anonymous  prose  satire  of  him,  written,  he  told 
Alicia,  by  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends — Ralph 
Sutton,  the  novelist — which  pilloried  him  ruthlessly  as 
"the  popinjay  of  politics."  The  whole  campaign  of  the 
Individualists  was  regarded  as  a  huge  joke  by  the 
majority,  though  some  of  the  leader  writers  prophesied 
that  it  might  have  serious  consequences.  It  certainly 
lent  itself  to  satire.  Quite  a  number  of  the  candidates 
were  sprigs  of  aristocracy;  among  them  Lord  John 
Hutton,  Lord  Percival  Percy,  the  Hon.  Charles 


184  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Munster,  Sir  Philip  Wainwright,  Sir  Horace  Brympton, 
Sir  Bulwer  Ashton,  and  Sir  Courtenay  Clandon.  They 
also  numbered  such  men  as  Hilary  Osgood,  the  painter, 
Adam  Inchbold,  the  novelist,  Frank  Swiveller,  the 
dramatist,  Paul  Ainsworth,  the  poet,  and  Cuthbert 
Waynefleet,  the  author  of  Individualism  and  Ethics  in 
Evolution. 

The  Times,  which  was  becoming  almost  merry  in  its 
leading  articles,  published  a  list  of  the  Individualists 
with  the  dates  of  their  birth,  deducing  therefrom  that 
three  had  just  attained  their  majority,  five  were  under 
thirty  years  of  age,  four  were  under  thirty-five,  and 
only  one  had  passed  his  fortieth  year. 

"We  suggest,"  said  The  Times,  "that  these  political 
babes  and  sucklings  should  be  sent  back  to  the  nursery 
of  life.  They  should  be  seen  but  not  heard.  At  pres- 
ent, like  spoilt  children,  they  are  making  far  too  much 
noise  in  our  household,  and  their  elders  can  scarcely 
make  themselves  heard.  We  trust  that  at  the  general 
election  John  Bull,  as  a  discreet  parent,  will  give  them 
all  a  good  whipping  and  send  them  to  bed." 

The  Daily  Mail,  who  turned  on  their  funny  man 
and  their  oracle  alternately  in  order  to  make  the 
most  of  the  situation,  drew  an  ingenious  parallel  be- 
tween the  Independent  Democrats  and  the  leaders  of 
the  French  Revolution  of  '89.  They  dubbed  Stretton 
Wingfield  as  Lafayette,  and  Lord  John  Hutton  as 
"the  sea-green  incorruptible,"  and  Lord  Percival  Percy 
as  the  Marquis  de  Narbonne.  In  the  imagination  of 
this  ingenious  young  gentleman,  whoever  he  might  be, 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  185 

Cuthbert  Waynefleet  was  a  reincarnation  of  Marat 
with  a  touch  of  Chadband,  Hilary  Osgood  was  "Dainty 
Desmoulins,"  and  Sir  Courtenay  Clandon  "a  dummy 
Danton." 

"Already,"  said  the  Daily  Mail,  "the  English  aris- 
tocracy is  beginning  to  tremble  before  the  ominous 
signs  of  the  forthcoming  election,  and  a  tide  of  emigra- 
tion has  set  in.  Referring  to  our  Society  and  Personal 
column,  it  will  be  seen  that  Paris  is  already  full  of 
English  visitors.  How  soon,  we  wonder,  will  the  guillo- 
tine be  set  up  in  Trafalgar  Square  and  a  Committee  of 
Public  Safety  sit  in  the  House  of  Lords?" 

Stretton  sent  these  cuttings  to  Alicia,  who  read  them 
with  indignation.  To  her  the  Individualist  campaign 
was  intensely  serious,  and  these  caricatures  in  the  Press 
seemed  to  her  slanderous  and  abominable. 

In  Stretton's  letters  she  found  frequent  portrait 
sketches  of  the  leaders  of  the  campaign,  many  of  whom 
were  his  old  college  friends,  and  Alicia  soon  seemed 
to  be  familiar  with  their  characteristics. 

"Our  strong  man,"  wrote  Stretton,  "is  Cuthbert 
Waynefleet.  He  is  our  philosopher  and  high  priest.  I 
suppose  you  have  read  his  Individualism.  That  is  the 
gospel  of  our  revolution,  and  the  Magna  Charta  of  Eng- 
lish liberty.  The  man  himself  is  complex.  I  have  not 
yet  sounded  the  depths  of  him.  He  is  a  libertine,  of 
course,  and  is  not  tolerated  in  society,  yet  his  chivalry 
to  women  is  old-fashioned,  and  his  manners  with  them 
exquisite.  With  men  he  is  cross-grained,  and  often 
violent.  My  knuckles  ache  at  times  to  break  his  head. 


186  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

But  in  his  quiet  moods,  when  not  engaged  in  argument 
(which  is  not  often),  he  is  gentle  and  good-tempered. 
He  speaks  best — and  then  like  a  very  Demosthenes — 
when  nearly  drunk.  He  haunts  the  taverns  off  Fleet 
Street,  and  soaks  port  wine  while  he  writes  those  amaz- 
ing tracts  which  will,  I  believe,  change  the  political 
constitution  of  this  country.  They  call  him  'Marat/ 
and  there  is  something  in  the  idea,  though  the  real 
Marat  had  not  the  human  qualities  of  Waynefleet. 
There  is  more  of  Mirabeau  about  him." 

Another  portrait  that  stood  out  in  Stretton's  letters, 
and  which  he  filled  in  afterwards  with  many  little 
touches,  was  that  of  Hilary  Osgood,  the  painter,  who, 
according  to  the  Daily  Mail,  was  "Dainty  Desmoulins." 

"You  must  know  Hilary  one  of  these  days,"  wrote 
Stretton.  "He  is  a  delightful  creature,  a  child  younger 
than  Cupid,  but  with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent.  He 
dresses  like  an  eighteenth-century  dandy,  and  looks  a 
very  pretty  kind  of  ass.  One  could  almost  kiss  him  for 
his  blue  eyes  and  fair  skin,  but  for  all  that  he  has  a 
diabolical  audacity,  and  the  things  he  says  without  a 
blush,  with  the  most  winsome  smile  imaginable,  must 
make  the  Government  squirm.  The  ladies  flock  to  his 
platforms,  and  they  will  vote  solid  for  him.  He  prom- 
ises to  give  a  kiss  for  every  vote,  which  I  believe  is 
bribery  and  corruption,  according  to  the  new  election 
laws.  He  is  a  dangerous  young  devil,  but  the  best  of 
fun." 

"Between  ourselves,"  wrote  Stretton  in  another 
letter,  "we  have  some  choice  fools  among  us.  Hutton 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  1S7 

and  Percy  are  almost  enough  to  ruin  any  cause.  They 
are  constantly  in  a  state  of  funk,  as  they  well  might 
be,  being  the  younger  sons  of  dukes,  and  I  have  to  bully 
them  by  word  of  mouth,  by  letters,  by  telegrams  and 
messages,  to  keep  them  to  their  pledges.  And  yet 
they  believe  we  could  not  do  without  them,  and  take 
themselves  quite  seriously!  Lord  John  looks  like  a 
groom  on  a  holiday,  and,  indeed,  what  he  doesn't  know 
about  horseflesh  is  not  knowledge.  He  is  scared  to 
death  of  women,  and  in  a  campaign  in  which  women's 
votes  count  for  so  much  he  is  almost  useless. 

"Percy,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  portentous  idiot,  who 
would  have  made  an  excellent  curate.  He  speaks  with 
a  frightful  lisp,  and  casts  sheep's  eyes  at  everything  in 
a  skirt.  He  lives  in  terror  of  his  mother,  'the  dear 
Duchess,'  who  is  a  most  formidable  lady,  and  would, 
I  am  sure,  spank  him  across  her  knee  if  she  could  get 
hold  of  him.  But  he  hasn't  been  near  Winchilsea 
House  since  his  name  appeared  on  our  first  manifesto." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

STRETTON  had  certainly  thrown  off  his  old  dilettant- 
ism and  easy-going  life.  He  seemed  to  be  possessed  of 
wings,  and  was  in  a  different  part  of  the  country  ad- 
dressing great  audiences  every  twenty-four  hours.  He 
wrote  from  Bristol  and  Birmingham,  Sheffield,  Leeds, 
Manchester,  Bolton,  Oldham,  Exeter,  Plymouth,  Lin- 
coln, Norwich,  and  a  score  of  other  towns.  At  first 
he  was  only  reported  at  length  in  local  papers,  of 
which  he  sent  scraps  of  cuttings  to  Alicia,  who  read 
his  speeches  with  as  much  excitement  as  if  she  had 
experienced  the  electricity  of  the  audience.  She  could 
see  his  gestures,  and  hear  his  voice  in  every  phrase. 
His  glowing  oratory,  flamboyant,  sarcastic,  vivid,  and 
picturesque,  astonished  her  with  its  enthusiasm  and 
variety.  She  detected  sometimes  a  certain  insincerity 
of  sentiment,  a  dangerous  facility  for  playing  upon 
the  popular  passions,  and  a  light-hearted  disregard  of 
strict  accuracy  of  fact,  which  filled  her  with  a  vague 
sense  of  uneasiness.  In  one  of  her  letters  she  warned 
him  against  these  tendencies,  and  begged  him  to  sacri- 
fice effect  for  sincerity.  "I  know  very  little  of  these 
things,"  she  wrote  with  humility,  "but,  my  dear,  I  feel 
very  strongly  that  truth  is  always  the  best  of  argu- 
ments. The  influence  of  a  clever  phrase  may  be  great 

188 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  189 

at  the  moment,  but  if  it  lacks  sincerity  it  is  a  double- 
edged  weapon." 

She  reproached  herself  afterwards  for  having  writ- 
ten in  this  strain,  knowing  that  in  the  excitement  of  a 
public  meeting  the  imagination  of  a  speaker  is  not  to 
be  fettered  by  caution.  But  Stretton  answered  her 
letter  in  his  frank  way  of  consent. 

"You  are  quite  right,  dear  heart.  My  tongue  wags 
fast  and  foolishly,  and  I  am  filled  with  self-abasement 
when  in  the  cold  morning  I  read  what  I  spoke  at  night. 
But  the  leopard  cannot  change  his  spots,  and  if  I 
played  for  safety  I  should  be  dumb." 

As  the  months  passed  and  the  great  fight  came  near, 
Stretton's  letters  became  less  frequent,  and  then  were 
brief  and  hurried  notes.  Alicia  read  them  with  a  grow- 
ing fear,  which  she  tried  vainly  to  thrust  back  from 
her  soul.  Brief  as  they  were,  she  detected  a  change 
of  tone  in  them.  They  no  longer  contained  those 
burning  words  which  still  glowed  in  his  earlier  letters 
locked  in  her  box.  He  no  longer  spoke  of  a  future 
which  they  would  share  together.  He  was  living  only 
in  the  present.  He  wrote  excitedly,  but  it  was  always 
of  the  political  situation.  A  postcard  with  a  despondent 
line  reached  her — "We  shall  be  badly  beaten."  A 
week  later  he  wrote,  "I  believe  we  shall  win."  Then, 
"My  last  speech  did  me  a  lot  of  harm,"  and  later, 
"Waynefleet  is  stealing  all  my  thunder;  I  am  only  his 
satellite." 

Alicia  pined  for  that  communion  of  thought  which 
he  had  given  in  his  earlier  letters,  when  he  had  sat 


190  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

down  late  at  night  remembering  his  love.  Was  he 
forgetting?  Had  he  already  forgotten? 

It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  entirely  absorbed 
in  his  political  work.  She  must  not  complain  or  fret. 
Yet,  oh,  surely  he  might  forget  the  world  for  at  least 
a  few  minutes,  and  remember  the  woman  who  was 
waiting  in  loneliness! 

There  came  a  time  when  he  did  not  write  at  all. 
Four  weeks  passed  and  not  a  word!  She  wondered 
if  he  were  ill,  if  he  had  broken  down  under  the  strain. 
But  no;  in  the  papers  she  followed  him  across  the 
country,  where  he  was  always  speaking.  The  London 
papers  now  reported  him  at  length.  "The  Individual- 
ist" was  a  prominent  heading.  They  were  no  longer 
laughed  at.  They  were  beginning  to  be  feared. 

Why  did  not  Stretton  write?  She  sent  him  long 
letters,  not  complaining,  but  wistful  and  pleading  for 
news  of  him.  He  did  not  answer. 

Alicia  was  growing  thin  and  careworn.  She  lay 
awake  at  night  and  got  up  languidly  with  weary  eyes 
next  morning.  It  was  a  struggle  to  do  her  duty  in  the 
school.  The  children  worried  her,  and  she  lost  her 
sweet  tranquillity  with  them.  The  Wingfield  ladies 
and  other  friends  in  the  village  asked  her  what  was 
the  matter.  They  thought  she  was  sickening  for  an 
illness. 

Miss  Cecily,  always  solicitous  for  her  health,  brought 
her  bowls  of  soup  and  jelly,  and  begged  her  to  take 
every  care  of  herself. 

She  began  to  get  frightened  at  her  own  languor  and 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  191 

weakness,  and  then  one  day  she  wrote  to  Stretton 
confiding  to  him.  a  secret  which  would  have  been  joy  to 
her  but  for  his  long  silence. 

"My  dear  Stretton,"  she  wrote.  "I  am  going  to 
have  a  child.  It  will  be  your  child  as  well  as  mine. 
Will  you  not  write  to  me?" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

ALICIA  wrote  three  letters  to  Stretton  after  that  note 
in  which  she  told  him  her  news,  and  there  was  a  week 
between  each  of  them. 

In  the  first  she  wrote: — 

"My  DEAR  LOVE, 

"Oh,  I  may  call  you  that  though  you  do  not  answer 
now  with  any  love!  A  week  has  passed  since  I  told 
you  what  would  surely  bring  some  response,  and  move 
you  with  a  remembrance  of  the  woman  to  whom  you 
made  so  many  promises.  You  have  forgotten  me— 
and  I  have  just  been  reading,  though  I  could  hardly 
see  for  tears,  your  earlier  letters,  so  tender,  so  full  of 
comradeship,  so  passionate  in  protestation  (oh,  verily 
you  protested  too  much!) — and  even  now,  after  these 
long  weeks  of  silence,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  you 
have  quite  forgotten.  I  make  allowances  for  the  ex- 
citement of  your  great  campaign.  I  do  not  demand, 
like  some  women,  that  my  lover  should  give  up  the 
world  for  love.  I  have  told  you  many  times  that  I 
am  content  to  wait — with  patience  longer  than  my 
life — but  when  I  said  so  it  was  with  the  thought  that 
though  we  might  be  parted  by  distance,  always  we 
should  be  close  in  spirit.  My  spirit  goes  out  to  meet 

192 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  193 

you,  but  you  are  not  there.  I  wander  in  the  darkness 
and  you  do  not  come  to  me.  I  wait  for  you,  but  my 
loneliness  becomes  despair.  Oh — and  I  believed  in 
you!  I  believed  in  you,  Stretton!  The  doubts  and 
fears  that  rose  in  my  woman's  heart  I  stifled  down  as 
unworthy  of  your  love.  I  gave  myself  to  you  in  joy, 
in  purity,  in  absolute  trust.  If  I  do  not  hear  from 
you,  how  can  I  keep  that  trust?  I  hate  to  tell  you, 
but  the  truth  is  best.  My  faith  in  your  honour  is 
ebbing  away,  and  in  its  place  comes  pitiful  contempt. 
Stretton,  for  the  sake  of  our  love,  for  the  sake  of  the 
child  coming  from  eternity  into  time,  answer  me.  Send 
one  word  to  your  unhappy 

"ALICIA." 

In  her  second  letter  Alicia  reproached  herself  for 
the  one  before. 

"I  was  weak  and  feverish.  I  take  back  all  I  wrote 
in  bitterness.  I  will  be  patient,  still,  dear  Stretton,  be- 
lieving that  when  this  political  uproar  has  calmed 
down  you  will  write  to  me  again.  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  those  four  days  when  you  sat  and  walked  with 
me,  and  a  hundred  little  things  you  said  come  back  to 
reassure  me.  I  see  your  grey  eyes,  so  candid,  sincere — 
they  are  not  lying  eyes.  I  cannot  believe  that  a  man 
could  speak  and  write  as  you  did,  Stretton,  and  in  a 
few  months  deny  himself  by  absolute  forgetfulness. 
Your  words  were  so  passionate,  my  love,  that  I  felt 
ashamed,  knowing  my  colder  nature.  It  is  I  now  that 
am  tempted  to  passion.  Oh,  if  I  did  not  check  this 


194  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

pen  I  should  pour  my  heart  out  on  the  paper.  If  I 
did  not  resist  the  foolishness  I  should  put  into  words 
some  of  the  fever  that  burns  me  now.  But  I  think 
of  the  little  child,  and  I  try  to  be  calm,  be  hopeful 
even  for  the  sake  of  the  little  life  that  must  not  be 
clouded  before  its  birth  with  a  mother's  despair  and 
fretfulness.  ...  In  a  little  while,  dear  Stretton,  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  keep  this  secret.  I  confess  I  dread  that 
time  when  inevitably  people  must  guess.  What  shall 
I  do  then?  I  should  not  be  ashamed  if  I  had  words 
of  comfort  from  you;  if  I  had  not  to  hide  a  secret  as  a 
guilty  thing.  I  would  rejoice  before  the  world  in  the 
promise  of  motherhood  if  I  could  name  the  father  of 
the  child,  or  at  least  boast  of  his  love.  Will  you 
deny  me  that,  Stretton,  my  dear?  Surely  not!  Surely 
not!" 

The  days  passed,  and  Alicia  waited  still  for  the  letter 
that  did  not  come.  Every  morning  she  rose  with  a 
new  eagerness  in  spite  of  the  languor  of  her  body, 
believing  that  to-day  the  silence  would  be  broken.  But 
the  morning  post  would  pass  without  a  letter,  and  she 
would  brace  herself  anew  to  wait  expectantly  again 
for  the  second  post  in  the  evening.  Yes,  before  the 
night  came  she  would  hear  from  him,  and  her  pillow 
would  be  wet  with  tears  of  joy  instead  of  tears  of 
anguish.  Alas!  And  the  night  would  pass  without 
the  words  that  would  have  given  her  courage.  The 
strain  wore  her  down  in  body  and  spirit.  She  grew  so 
listless  that  after  the  school  hours  she  could  do  noth- 
ing but  pace  up  and  down  her  little  room,  and  at  night 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST:  195 

she  could  not  lie  still,  but  tossed  feverishly  with  moans 
and  inarticulate  cries  that  passed  her  parched  lips, 
though  she  tried  to  stifle  them.  It  was  after  one  such 
night  that  she  sat  down  before  breakfast,  limply  and 
with  dark,  burning  eyes,  to  write  a  last  letter  to  Stret- 
ton.  Her  self-control  was  gone-.  She  could  put  no 
check  on  her  pen,  and  she  was  blind  to  the  words  she 
wrote,  incoherently  and  wildly. 

"God  knows  I  have  waited  long  enough.  I  will 
not  write  to  you  again.  My  faith  is  not  only  destroyed 
in  you,  it  is  destroyed  in  all  that  I  believe  to  be  true. 
What  I  thought  was  love  was  lust.  What  I  thought 
was  purity  was  vile  and  obscene.  I  will  burn  your 
letters,  which  I  have  kissed  a  thousand  times  and 
blotted  with  my  tears,  as  I  would  burn  foul  rags  reek- 
ing with  disease.  I  would  burn  my  hands  that  you 
once  held  to  your  lips,  because  they  are  impure.  But 
for  the  child  I  would  burn  myself,  because  you  have 
made  me  vile.  What  sort  of  man  you  were,  I  do  not 
know.  You  must  be  something  devilish  that  you  hide 
so  false  a  heart  behind  such  outward  candour  and 
apparent  honesty.  Why  did  I  not  see  the  devil  grin- 
ning in  those  grey  eyes  that  stared  into  my  soul?  If 
there  were  a  God  He  would  have  warned  me.  You 
have  thrust  me  aside  as  a  woman  you  once  played  with 
and  would  now  be  bothered  with  no  more.  So  also 
I  will  forget  you,  or  if  I  must  remember,  it  shall  be  to 
teach  my  child  what  a  dastard  was  its  father.  For 
that  alone  I  thank  you.  I  shall  have  a  little  one.  My 
motherhood  will  not  be  denied  all  its  joy.  I  will  be 


196  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

happy  in  that.  I  will  be  kinder  than  God,  and  will 
not  visit  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  child.  I  think 
I  hate  you  .  .  .  and  yet  I  do  not!  .  .  .  Even  now, 
if  you  came  to  me,  I  should  fall  at  your  feet.  Even,  I 
think,  in  twenty  years,  if  you  call  to  me  across  the 
silence  I  shall  speed  to  .you.  But  I  shall  not  write 
again.  Oh,  Stretton,  my  love,  my  heart  is  broken. 
Oh,  God!  Oh,  my  love!  Oh,  my  poor  unborn  child! 
Good-bye,  my  Stretton,  I  shall  not  write  again." 

She  became  calmer  after  this,  and  the  sorrow  of 
resignation  was  easier  to  bear  than  feverish  expectancy 
and  doubtful  hope.  She  had,  even,  some  strange  satis- 
faction in  the  burning  of  Stretton's  letters,  the  exqui- 
site pleasure  of  self-torture  which  is  the  most  subtle 
and  exciting  form  of  sensual  enjoyment.  She  lingered 
over  them,  not  casting  them  in  a  heap  to  the  flames, 
but  burning  them  one  by  one,  watching  each  one  curl 
and  blacken  with  eyes  that  reflected  the  fire  within  her 
soul,  the  fire  in  which,  spiritually,  Stretton's  passionate 
words  were  burnt  to  ashes. 

In  the  days  that  followed  she  turned  to  David  Heath 
for  comfort  and  restfulness,  as  she  had  found  peace  in 
his  strong  friendship  after  the  first  passionate  joys  of 
love.  His  letters  now  took  the  place  of  Stretton's, 
and  she  read  them  many  times,  finding  in  their  calm, 
well-balanced,  unemotional  expression  an  antidote  to 
the  fever  of  her  mind. 

He  wrote  fully  of  his  new  experiences,  but  without 
vanity,  and  knowing  that  she  would  be  most  interested 
in  his  new  life. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  197 

He  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  it. 

"I  find,"  he  said,  "hypocrisy,  selfishness,  and  cant 
masquerading  as  philanthropy  and  reform.  This 
settlement  is  run  by  young  University  men  who  come 
to  the  East  End  in  a  spirit  of  self-conscious  martyrdom 
and  self -righteousness.  They  believe  themselves  to  be 
mighty  fine  democrats,  but  they  have  no  real  under- 
standing of  the  people  and  treat  them  de  haul  en  bas. 
So  it  follows  that  the  working-men  attracted  to  our  lec- 
tures and  social  gatherings  are  those  who  have  not  the 
spirit  to  resent  being  patronised,  or  who  arc  eager  to 
get  something  for  nothing,  or  wish  to  climb  up  in  the 
social  scale  so  that  they  can  kick  those  on  the  rung 
beneath.  Our  debates  are  examples  of  vanity,  crass 
ignorance,  and  low  vulgarity.  The  absurd  airs  of  our 
'Varsity  young  men  are  only  less  objectionable  than 
the  violent  conceit  and  'uppishness'  of  the  working- 
men.  I  am  not  popular.  Last  night  I  went  for  the 
lecturers  and  pounded  them  for  their  insincerity.  I 
told  them  that  they  reminded  me  of  the  worst  type  of 
missionary  who  goes  blundering  among  native  races 
with  a  fine  notion  of  his  Heaven-sent  vocation  and, 
without  the  slightest  knowledge  of  native  morality  and 
law,  outrages  the  strongest  and  noblest  traditions  of 
their  race.  The  only  converts  he  makes  are  those  he 
buys  and  bribes.  They  do  not  like  that,  I  can  tell  you ! 
They  made  a  formal  complaint  to  the  Warden,  who, 
to  their  amazement,  agreed  cordially  with  every  word 
I  said,  and  told  them  to  take  the  truth  to  heart.  He 
is  the  only  man  among  them,  and  in  spite  of  his  sub- 


198  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

lime  self-confidence  and  vanity,  which  clothes  him  in 
impregnable  armour,  he  is  sincere,  earnest  in  his  devo- 
tion to  the  intellectual  and  social  progress  of  the  people, 
and  amazing  in  his  energy.  He  believes  in  me,  I  think, 
and  will  not  listen  to  slanderers  and  scoffers  who  would 
undermine  my  position.  I  have  started  a  series  of  lec- 
tures on  'The  Spirit  of  Democracy,'  and  I  am  glad  to 
say  that  they  are  attracting  a  more  honest  class  of 
working-men  than  generally  find  their  way  to  Erasmus 
Hall." 

Not  once  in  all  his  letters  did  David  Heath  let  slip 
even  one  word  that  betrayed  emotion  or  sentiment. 
Not  once  did  he  write  the  name  of  Stretton  Wingfield, 
or  mention  the  Individualist  campaign,  which  must 
have  been  in  his  thoughts,  as  in  every  one's  thoughts, 
during  those  days  of  political  strife. 

Alicia  thanked  him  in  her  heart  for  this.  David  was 
a  source  of  infinite  comfort  to  her  .because  of  his 
strength,  his  reticence,  his  calm  common  sense. 

She  did  not  see  the  white  face  of  the  "Master  of 
Erasmus,"  as  he  was  called  now,  nor  how  he  stifled 
back  his  passion  when  he  wrote  those  letters  of  quiet 
gossip. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

ONE  morning,  a  week  after  she  had  written  her  last 
letter  to  Stretton,  Alicia  sent  her  little  servant  round 
the  village  to  tell  the  parents  of  her  children  that  there 
would  be  no  school  that  day  as  she  was  very  unwell. 

She  sat  by  the  open  window,  or  rather  lay,  with  her 
head  back  on  a  pillow,  faint  and  sick.  Her  face  had 
thinned  since  Stretton  saw  the  beauty  of  it,  and  to-day 
the  deep  carnation  of  her  cheeks  had  almost  faded. 
Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  breathed  so  softly  and 
was  so  very  still  that  she  might  have  been  the  image  of 
beautiful  Death. 

She  was  thinking  in  a  dreamy  mist  of  thought,  in 
which  nothing  was  denned,  and  nothing  clear  except  a 
feeling  of  fear.  She  could  no  longer  go  on  like  this. 
In  a  little  while  her  secret  must  be  known.  What 
would  she  do?  To  what  place  could  she  go  for  sanc- 
tuary from  the  rude  eyes  of  the  village?  She  had  not 
a  relation  in  the  world  and  hardly  a  friend.  David? 
He  was  her  friend.  He  had  said  he  would  help  her 
in  any  time  of  trouble.  Oh,  she  would  be  glad  to  go 
to  David !  He  was  so  kind  and  strong  and  wise.  But 
she  would  be  ashamed.  No,  she  could  not  go  to  David. 
She  must  bear  her  loneliness.  She  must  grapple  with 

199 


200  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

this  deadly  fear  that  was  crushing  out  her  courage. 
Why  was  she  so  weak?  This  terrible  languor  of  body 
and  soul! 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Was  it  a  knock? 
She  listened  with  a  heart  that  beat  so  loudly  that  she 
could  not  tell  whether  that  was  the  knocking.  Yet  it 
was  a  knock!  It  sounded  again  with  a  sharp  tapping 
at  the  door. 

She  rose  and  went  slowly  into  the  hall,  with  her 
hand  to  her  side,  trying  to  steady  her  quick  breathing. 
Then  she  opened  the  door  and  saw  that  her  visitor  was 
Miss  Cecily. 

"My  dear,  are  you  ill?" 

The  little  lady  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and  then 
taking  her  hand  led  her  into  the  sitting-room. 

"I  am  a  little  queer  to-day,"  said  Alicia.  "It  is 
nothing,  absolutely  nothing." 

She  sat  down  quietly,  and  tried  to  hide  her  faintness. 

Miss  Cecily  looked  round  the  room  with  a  timid 
glance,  and  then  going  down  suddenly  upon  her  knees 
before  Alicia  took  her  hands,  her  own  faded,  withered, 
little  hands  trembling  excitedly. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  in  a  kind  of  whisper.  "My  dear 
. . .  what  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  have  a  little  headache,"  said  Alicia. 

"Is  it  nothing  more  than  that?"  said  Miss  Cecily, 
and  as  she  gazed  with  a  strange  searching  look  into 
Alicia's  face  the  schoolmistress  veiled  her  eyes  and 
flushed  deeply.  She  put  a  hand  to  her  bosom. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  201 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  is  something  more."  She 
looked  up  and  met  the  elderly  lady's  gaze,  and  her 
confession  was  made  in  that  moment. 

Miss  Cecily  rose  from  her  knees,  and  wrung  her 
hands  in  a  kind  of  anguish. 

"Alicia! "  she  said  presently,  still  in  a  whisper.  "You 
...  of  all  women!  How  could  you!  How  could  you!" 

A  tiny  smile  fluttered  for  a  moment  about  Alicia's 
lips. 

"I  am  a  woman,"  she  said. 

Miss  Cecily  began  to  cry  gently,  and  wiped  the  tears 
away  as  they  welled  into  her  blue  eyes. 

"I  cannot  understand  it  ...  it  is  a  great  shock  to 
me.  What  poor  Agnes  will  say  I  really  do  not  know." 

"I  hope  she  will  not  love  me  any  less,"  said  Alicia. 

Miss  Cecily  put  out  a  trembling  hand. 

"My  dear  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  you  do  not  know  poor 
Agnes.  I  have  left  her  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  ex- 
citement. She  says  that  if  it  is  true  it  will  be  the 
greatest  disgrace  to  Long  Stretton." 

"Are  they  talking  about  me  already?"  said  Alicia 
with  a  sudden  look  of  fear. 

"It  was  Mr.  Cartwright,"  said  Miss  Cecily,  breaking 
down  now  into  sobs.  "He  spoke  to  poor  Agnes 
privately,  and  .  .  .  and  warned  her  of  your  condition. 
When  she  told  me  I  vowed  he  was  speaking  falsely 
.  .  .  but,  oh!  ...  my  dear,  that  it  is  true  is  worse  1 
How  could  you!  Alicia!  How  could  you!" 


202  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

She  mopped  her  eyes  with  a  delicate  lace  handker- 
chief, and  Alicia  was  touched  by  her  grief. 

"Do  you  think  badly  of  me?"  she  said,  with  tender 
reproach.  "Do  you  shrink  from  me  as  a  sinner?  Oh, 
do  not  let  your  dear  heart  be  spoilt  by  cruelty." 

Miss  Cecily  took  her  hand  again  and  pressed  it 
convulsively. 

"You  are  a  good  woman  ...  I  can  believe  nothing 
bad  of  you,  my  dear,  but  .  .  .  poor  child,  what  is  the 
truth?  Who  is  the  villain  that .  .  .  ?" 

Alicia  paled. 

"Do  not  call  him  that!"  she  said  faintly. 

Miss  Cecily  flared  into  a  little  fury. 

"Oh,  he  must  be  a  very  wicked  man,  whoever  it 
is.  That  he  should  have  brought  you  to  shame, 
Alicia!" 

"Not  to  shame!"  said  Alicia  quickly.  "I  am  not 
ashamed !  I  shall  be  proud  to  be  a  mother." 

Miss  Cecily  looked  at  her  in  timid  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean  that?  Are  you  not  ashamed? 
...  I ...  I  do  not  understand! " 

"Is  it  a  shame  to  bring  a  child  into  the  world?" 

Alicia's  eyes  glowed  with  anger.  "Oh,  I  hate  the 
cruelty  which  is  called  purity.  I  hate  those  hard  people 
who  will  stone  a  woman  because  she  has  been  willing 
to  suffer  motherhood  without  legal  sanction  or  church 
ceremony.  That  is  Christianity!  But  there  is  little 
of  Christ  in  it!"  She  checked  her  wildness,  seeing 
the  terror  of  Miss  Cecily  at  what  was  blasphemy  to  her. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  203 

"Forgive  me!"  she  said.  "Forgive  me!  But  surely 
you  understand,  dear  Miss  Cecily!  You  have  desired 
the  joys  of  love  and  motherhood.  You  will  not  hate 
me  because  my  desire  for  love  was  stronger  than 
prudence!" 

Miss  Cecily  bowed  her  head,  which  was  shaking 
tremulously. 

"I  am  a  hypocrite.  .  .  .  God  forgive  me!  ...  I  came 
to  reproach  you,  my  dear,  and  yet  I  know  that  in  my 
young  days  if  love  had  come  to  me  I  should  have  gone 
to  meet  it  without  any  prudence." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  the  little  lady  bled  at  the 
heart  in  self-pity  because  her  life  had  been  without 
love,  and  from  that  moment  she  had  no  blame  for 
Alicia,  but  infinite  tenderness  and  pity,  that  was  not 
without  a  little  secret  envy. 

But  presently  her  fears  came  back,  for  she  knew  that 
punishment  awaits  the  woman  who  breaks  the  social 
law. 

"My  dear,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  You  cannot 
stay  here.  What  shall  I  say  to  Miss  Agnes?  She  is 
inflexible  and  unforgiving  in  such  a  case  as  this.  She 
is  terribly  scandalised.  I  fear  she  will  never  speak  to 
you  again." 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Alicia.  "But  I  see  that 
I  cannot  stay  here.  I  must  go  away  ...  at  once." 

"Will  you  go  to  him?"  said  Miss  Cecily  timidly. 
"Surely  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  marry 


204  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

you.  He  is  in  a  good  place  now,  I  hear.  He  could  well 
afford  to  keep  you." 

Alicia  raised  her  head  and  stared  at  the  lady  with 
astonished  eyes.  "Do  you  know  who  it  is?"  she  said 
faintly. 

Miss  Cecily  flushed,  with  a  look  of  painful  embar- 
rassment. 

"It  was  the  Vicar  who  told  my  sister.  He  said  there 
was  only  one  man  who  could  be  accused." 

"Who?" 

Alicia  sat  up  in  her  chair,  gripping  its  long  arms. 

"I  suppose  he  was  right.  I  have  long  guessed 
David's  love  for  you." 

Alicia  gasped. 

"David!"  she  cried  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "Did  he  say 
David?" 

"Yes,  my  poor  child.  It  was  not  difficult  to  guess. 
And  the  Vicar  said  he  has  another  proof." 

Alicia  rose,  white  to  the  lips,  and  there  was  pas- 
sionate anger  in  her  eyes. 

"How  dare  he!"  she  said,  clenching  her  hands. 
"How  dare  he!" 

"It  cannot  be  kept  secret.  All  the  village  knows 
your  friendship  with  him." 

"With  David?" 

The  anger  in  Alicia's  eyes  faded  out,  leaving  a  look  of 
absolute  dismay. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  cried.    "Will  they  think  that?" 

She  sank  down  and  buried  her  face  in  the  sofa, 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  205 

weeping  passionately  and  hysterically.  Then,  sud- 
denly, as  Miss  Cecily  bent  over  her  with  soothing 
words,  she  became  quite  quiet,  and  slipped  to  the  floor 
in  a  deep  swoon. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THAT  night  all  the  village  knew  that  Alicia  Fren- 
sham,  the  schoolmistress,  was  dangerously  ill.  The 
windows  in  her  little  house  were  ablaze  with  light,  and 
outside  the  garden-gate  the  doctor's  horse  was  tethered 
to  the  hedge.  For  an  hour  or  more  a  little  group  of 
men  and  women  stood  in  the  darkness  talking  in  low 
voices  and  staring  up  at  the  bedroom  window,  where 
occasionally  the  shadow  of  Dr.  Bramwell  passed  across 
the  blind.  Sudden  illness  is  always  a  cause  of  excite- 
ment in  village  life,  and  there  had  been  dramatic  inci- 
dents in  this  case.  Miss  Cecily  had  been  seen  flying 
down  the  little  street  to  the  doctor's  house,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  the  doctor  himself  sprang  into  his  saddle 
and  galloped  furiously  to  Alicia's  cottage.  Then  Miss 
Cecily  walked  back,  panting  for  breath.  She  stopped 
at  Mrs.  Orpington's,  the  washerwoman  and  village 
nurse,  and  after  a  brief  conversation  hurried  her  off 
to  the  little  school-house.  By  the  round  O  of  Mrs. 
Orpington's  mouth  and  the  solemnity  of  her  old  pippin 
face  the  villagers  knew  that  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  had  happened  to  Miss  Frensham.  Rumours 
chased  each  other  down  the  high  street.  In  the  allsorts 
shop  Mrs.  Goodyear  heard  tell  that  scarlet  fever  had 
come  like  a  roaring  beast  to  Long  Stretton.  An  hour 

206 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  207 

later,  and  a  few  doors  further  up,  Mrs.  Featherfew 
gasped  out  the  awful  word  smallpox,  which  she  had 
heard  from  the  grocer's  assistant  at  the  Stores,  who 
had  had  it  from  the  haberdasher's  young  lady.  Further 
excitement  'had  been  caused  by  an  interchange  of 
notes  between  the  school-house  and  the  Hall.  Miss 
Cecily  had  come  to  Miss  Frensham's  door  and,  in  a 
high  quavering  voice,  had  called  for  a  volunteer  to 
carry  the  letter  to  Miss  Agnes.  It  was  the  butcher's 
boy  who  sprang  first  to  the  occasion,  the  others  hav- 
ing hung  back  with  a  dread  of  infection.  Half 
an  hour  later  he  came  bounding  back  with  an  answer, 
and  a  long  tale  of  how  Miss  Wingfield  had  been  white 
and  skeery  when  she  wrote  the  letter  as  he  waited.  It 
was  then  that  the  rumour  of  smallpox  reached  the 
group  of  waiters  in  the  lane,  sending  a  shudder  among 
them  and  dispersing  them  quickly. 

"Better  not  stay  here,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said 
Mr.  Toms,  the  barber,  in  a  hollow  voice.  "We  must 
think  of  our  wives  and  childer.  The  pox  is  a  poxy 
thing,  and  very  secretive."  He  moved  off  down  the 
lane  like  a  bell-wether,  and  the  others  followed  as 
sheep,  and  huddled  together  with  a  common  fear. 

Only  one  remained,  and  he  stayed  in  the  darkness 
for  an  hour  more,  standing  quite  motionless  with  his 
hands  resting  on  a  gnarled  stick.  It  was  Jonathan 
Heath,  who,  at  the  news  of  Alicia's  illness,  had  been 
plunged  into  deep  reproachfulness  for  the  sullen  way  in 
which  he  had  behaved  to  her  of  late.  All  his  resent- 
ment had  been  melted  now  by  the  remembrance  of 


208  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

the  many  gracious  hours  she  had  spent  in  his  work- 
shop, and  of  her  generous  gift  of  friendship  which  had 
been  to  him  a  new  intellectual  awakening  and  an  educa- 
tion. Strong,  simple  man,  it  was  intolerable  to  him  to 
be  inactive  while  Alicia  was  ill.  If  only  he  could  serve 
her  by  muscular  exertion,  by  riding  on  some  errand,  by 
nammering  something  out  of  hot  iron  for  her!  Jona- 
than waited  until  the  doctor  came  away  from  the  house, 
and  then  went  up  to  him  as  he  unhitched  his  horse. 

"Be  it  good  news  or  bad,  Doctor?"  he  asked, 
anxiously. 

Doctor  Bramwell  started  at  this  figure  looming  sud- 
denly out  of  the  darkness,  but  he  recognised  Jonathan 
by  his  height  and  voice. 

"It  was  touch  and  go,  my  man.  But  she's  right 
now.  Nature  will  do  the  rest." 

"Praise  the  Lord,"  said  Jonathan. 

"That's  right  enough.  We  doctors  never  get  any 
thanks." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  as  he  got  on  to  his  horse  and 
took  it  at  a  canter  down  the  lane.  Upstairs  in  the 
bedroom  Alicia  lay  still  moaning,  not  now  in  pain  of 
body,  but  in  despair. 

Miss  Cecily  sat  by  her  side  fondling  her  hand.  The 
little  lady's  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  but  now  her 
eyes  glowed  with  thankfulness  that  Alicia  was  out  of 
danger. 

"I  have  nothing  to  live  for  now,"  said  Alicia.  "Why 
has  God,  or  Fate,  or  whatever  the  Power  may  be, 
allowed  this  cruelty?  Why  am  I  denied  my  child?" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  209 

"Perhaps  it  is  best,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Cecily 
gently.  "It  saves  you  from  much  suffering  and  shame." 

Alicia  groaned  bitterly,  and  turned  her  head  away 
from  Miss  Cecily. 

"I  do  not  mean  that  you  would  deserve  the  shame, 
my  poor  friend,"  said  the  lady  soothingly.  "But  the 
world  is  very  cruel,  and  you  are  a  woman." 

"Yes — I  am  a  woman!" 

Alicia  laughed  faintly,  and  her  eyes  glowed  with 
anger. 

"Men  go  their  way  carelessly.  It  is  the  weak  woman 
who  bears  the  pain  and  is  stoned  for  it.  Oh,  Christian 
charity!" 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Cecily,  "the  world  is  hard  be- 
cause it  forgets  the  charity  of  Christ.  I  pray  that  I 
may  remember  it." 

Alicia's  eyes  flooded  with  a  sudden  gush  of  tears, 
and  she  pressed  Miss  Cecily's  hand  upon  the  coverlet. 

"You  are  all  that  is  sweet  and  loving.  I  owe  my 
life  to  you.  Oh  ...  but  it  is  hard  that  I  have  lost  that 
other  life!"  She  wept  broken-heartedly,  and  Miss 
Cecily  could  not  soothe  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AFTER  her  breakdown  Alicia  recovered  her  health  in 
a  way  that  was  surprising  and  even  humiliating  to  her- 
self. Her  grief  was  so  intense  that  she  would  gladly 
have  given  up  life  as  now  a  hopeless  thing.  Yet  in 
three  days,  so  wonderful  is  nature  when  youth  is  on 
its  side,  that  she  was  able  to  leave  her  bed  and  lie  upon 
the  couch  in  her  small  parlour  by  the  open  window 
through  which  the  scent  of  roses  came.  Miss  Cecily 
called  every  day  with  jellies  and  other  comforts,  and 
the  village  folk  vied  with  each  other  in  bringing  little 
gifts  of  eggs  and  fruit  and  flowers.  The  smallpox 
rumour  had  been  quickly  disproved,  and  they  were 
rather  ashamed  of  having  listened  to  the  lie. 

On  the  sixth  day,  when  Alicia  was  quite  convalescent, 
she  received  a  note  from  Miss  Agnes  Wingfield.  She 
opened  it  reluctantly,  knowing  that  whatever  words 
were  in  it  would  wound  her.  Miss  Agnes  had  not  once 
called  at  the  school-house,  and  from  certain  timid 
phrases  let  fall  by  Miss  Cecily,  Alicia  knew  that  the 
elder  lady  could  not  forgive  her. 

But  the  letter  stabbed  her  cruelly.  She  loved  Miss 
Agnes  for  her  many  gracious  qualities,  and  for  that 
reason  each  sentence  smote  her  as  a  blow. 

"Madam,"  the  letter  began,  and  Alicia  paled  as  the 
210 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  211 

cold  word  met  her  eye,  "I  have  waited  until  you  were 
in  a  state  of  health  strong  enough,  I  trust,  to  read  with 
calmness  what  I  write  with  pain.  It  is  not  necessary 
for  me  to  tell  you  how  terribly  my  dear  sister  and  I 
have  suffered  from  this  shame  that  has  come  to  us 
through  your  sin.  We  gave  you  our  friendship — I  will 
not  enlarge  on  that — and  you  betrayed  our  trust.  We 
had  so  much  confidence  in  your  virtue  and  propriety 
that  we  placed  you  in  charge  of  the  innocent  little  chil- 
dren of  our  village  school.  To  know  that  you  of  all 
young  women  should  have  succumbed  to  temptation  is 
still  almost  incredible.  It  is,  indeed,  a  grievous  reflec- 
tion upon  my  dear  sister  and  myself,  who  should  have 
been  more  watchful  and  prudent.  I  have  permitted  my 
dear  sister,  whose  tender  heart  bleeds  even  for  the 
worst  of  sinners,  to  comfort  and  nurse  you  during  your 
illness.  But  I  must  beg  you  to  understand  that  this 
Christian  charity  is  in  no  way  a  sign  of  forgiveness 
for  what  to  all  good  and  pure  women  is  an  unpardon- 
able sin.  Henceforth  our  friendship  towards  you  is  at 
an  end,  though  the  memory  of  your  innocent  days  and 
of  the  happiness  we  had  in  your  companionship  will 
always  remain  to  us  as  a  great  and  bitter  regret  for  so 
deplorable  an  ending. 

"You  will,  of  course,  not  fail  to  resign  your  position 
as  mistress  of  Long  Stretton  School.  Our  responsibility 
to  the  poor  children  makes  this  immediately  necessary. 
I  pray  that  God  may  grant  you  His  mercy  and  that  He 
may  restore  you  to  His  infinite  grace. 

"AGNES  WINGFIELD." 


212  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Alicia  read  the  letter  until  the  end,  when  her  tears 
blinded  her.  Then  tearing  it  into  small  bits  she  let 
them  fall  upon  the  floor.  She  had  reached  the  depths 
of  anguish,  and  in  her  lonely  room  she  struggled  with 
a  deadening  despair.  That  afternoon  she  wrote  an 
answer  to  the  letter: — 

"I  resign  my  position  as  mistress  of  Long  Stretton 
School,  where  I  have  tried  to  do  my  duty.  I  am 
grateful  for  the  loving  goodness  shown  to  me  by  all  in 
the  village,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  infinite  kindness 
of  you  and  Miss  Cecily." 

An  hour  after  this  note  had  been  sent  up  to  the 
Hall  by  the  little  maidservant  the  postmistress  came 
with  a  telegram. 

Alicia  returned  the  greeting  of  the  woman  and  closed 
the  door  upon  her  before  she  opened  the  pink  envelope. 

Her  heart  leapt  within  her  with  a  sudden  and  terrible 
excitement.  The  telegram  was  from  Stretton  Wing- 
field. 

"Have  just  received  six  letters  not  delivered  because 
of  constantly  changing  address.  Am  overwhelmed  with 
sorrow  and  self-reproach.  Come  to  me.  My  love 
awaits  you. — STRETTON,  10,  Duke  St.,  St.  James's, 
London,  W." 

Alicia  gave  a  great  cry  and  fell  face  downwards  upon 
the  floor  with  her  arms  outstretched. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

ON  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  Alicia  stood  on  the 
platform  at  Victoria.  The  first  fog  of  the  autumn 
filled  the  station  with  a  damp  grey  mist  through  which 
the  electric  lights  gleamed  with  a  clouded  radiance. 
A  crowd  of  people  waited  for  an  outgoing  train,  eddy- 
ing backwards  and  forwards  behind  the  line  of  porters 
clamouring  for  luggage  from  the  passengers  in  Alicia's 
train,  which  had  just  arrived.  She  stayed  motionlessly 
under  one  of  the  lamps,  her  brain  dazed  by  the  dull 
roar  and  by  the  tangle  of  humanity.  She  watched  the 
line  of  cabs  move  slowly  down  the  further  side  of  the 
platform  as  those  in  front  drove  away  into  a  whirl- 
pool at  the  entrance,  with  hoarse  shouts  and  the  clack 
of  whips. 

A  few  people  waiting  for  friends  turned  to  look  at 
her — this  solitary  woman  in  black,  whose  quietude  was 
strangely  in  contrast  to  the  general  restlessness.  The 
electric  light  made  a  glamour  about  her,  accentuating 
the  shadows  under  her  eyes  and  the  pallor  of  her  face. 
Three  portmanteaux  lay  around  her,  and  as  she  stood 
with  her  face  slightly  raised,  and  her  eyes  gazing  into 
the  station  distances,  utterly  unobservant  of  individ- 
uals, she  was  a  picture  for  a  French  impressionist. 

213 


214  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Manet  would  have  caught  that  attitude  of  patient  ex- 
pectancy, and  the  mysticism  of  her  face. 

A  man  fought  his  way  through  the  crowds  to  her  and 
took  her  hands. 

"Alicia!" 

It  was  Stretton  Wingfield.  He  looked  at  her  with 
a  kind  of  shame,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  that  was  strange 
to  her. 

"How  ill  you  look — and  how  beautiful!  My  God, 
what  a  brute  I  have  been  to  you! " 

Alicia's  face  flamed  with  a  sudden  joy. 

"Stretton  .  .  .  my  love!" 

He  gripped  a  porter's  arm  and  pointed  to  the  bags. 
Then  he  guided  Alicia  swiftly  towards  the  line  of  han- 
som cabs,  and  hailed  one.  As  they  drove  out  of  the 
station,  he  took  her  hand  again,  stroking  it  gently. 
He  could  find  no  words  but  those  of  self-reproach  and 
passionate  excuses. 

"I  have  been  a  brute  .  .  .  utterly  selfish.  ...  I  was 
so  rushed  with  work  I  could  not  find  time  to  write  .  .  . 
hardly  to  eat. .  .  .  Those  letters  lay  at  my  flat.  I  ought 
to  have  sent  for  them.  I  have  been  a  brute!  My  poor 
child!" 

She  let  her  head  slip  to  his  shoulder  and  wept  quietly 
with  excess  of  joy. 

"I  should  not  have  written  those  stupid  letters,"  she 
said  presently.  "Forgive  me,  Stretton.  I  was  too 
impatient." 

"You?" 

Stretton  laughed  bitterly. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  215 

"I  shall  never  forgive  myself!" 

"I  doubted  your  love.  I  have  been  wicked.  But 
let  us  forget  all  that.  I  am  dazed  with  joy." 

She  sat  forward  in  the  cab  drinking  in  the  moist, 
misty  air,  breathing  in  the  sour  smell  of  the  streets,  and 
dazzling  her  eyes  with  the  flare  of  the  shop  windows. 

"London ! "  she  said,  as  they  drove  through  the  Green 
Park,  where  the  long  vista  of  lights  gleamed  before 
them,  and  a  constant  stream  of  carriages  passed  with 
flashing  lamps,  to  the  tune  of  jingling  bells  and  harness, 
and  with  a  swirling  noise  as  of  rushing  waters.  She 
breathed  quickly  and  gave  a  low,  excited  laugh. 

"Glorious!"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

They  were  held  up  in  the  traffic  by  Marlborough 
House.  A  dense  block  of  carriages  waited  their  turn 
to  drive  through  the  gates.  Through  their  windows 
Alicia  caught  glimpses  of  women  in  white  gowns,  their 
flesh  gleaming  softly,  and  with  glittering  jewels.  By 
the  side  of  some  there  were  men  in  scarlet  uniforms,  or 
in  naval  blue. 

"Who  are  they — all  those  people?  Where  are  they 
going?" 

"It's  Marlborough  House.  The  Prince  gives  a  dinner 
to-night." 

A  carriage  moved  close  and  then  got  jammed  close 
to  the  cab.  An  elderly  man  in  Court  dress  unfastened 
the  window,  leaning  forward  on  his  seat  to  stare  at 
Stretton  and  Alicia.  It  was  a  thin,  clean-shaven,  dis- 
tinguished-looking man,  and  a  smile  played  about  his 
thin  lips. 


216  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Good  evening,  Stretton,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh 
which  to  Alicia  did  not  seem  altogether  pleasant. 

She  felt  Stretton  suddenly  stiffen  at  her  side.  He 
gave  a  start  as  the  voice  greeted  him.  Then  he  laughed, 
too,  nervously. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.    "Doing  the  gold-stick  business?" 

He  went  forward  to  hide  Alicia  from  the  man's 
cool  stare. 

"Yes,  my  Individual  youth!  I  suppose  you  are  too 
much  of  a  democrat  to  envy  me,  eh?  Or  do  you  some- 
times put  off  the  democrat  pose?" 

"Wait  till  the  House  meets,"  said  Stretton,  with  a 
more  natural  gaiety.  "We  are  going  to  make  things 
move!" 

"You  will  certainly  add  to  the  gaiety  of  nations,  my 
amiable  young  ass!  Well,  au  revoir!" 

He  leant  back  with  another  laugh,  and  the  carriage 
moved  forward  in  the  queue  and  disappeared  through 
the  gates  of  Marlborough  House. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  Alicia.  "I  don't  like  him,  who- 
ever he  is." 

"My  worthy  uncle,  Lord  Hugh  Unstead,  the  Minister 
of  War.  What  a  coincidence  that  he  should  have  come 
alongside  like  that!  Confound  him!" 

He  sat  back  and  was  silent  as  the  hansom  now  shot 
forward  through  the  two  lines  of  carriages. 

"We  shall  not  be  alone  until  late  to-night,"  he  said, 
as  he  took  Alicia's  hand  and  helped  her  out  of  the 
hansom.  "It  is  a  terrible  nuisance,  but  I  could  not 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  217 

postpone  a  dinner  to  the  party  leaders.  It  is  our  first 
rendezvous.  Do  you  mind,  Alicia?" 

Alicia's  eyes  widened  with  a  frightened  look.  She 
turned  on  the  doorstep  and  gazed  into  the  dark  and 
quiet  little  street. 

"I  shall  be  in  your  way,  Stretton.  Shall  I  go  some- 
where else  ...  to  some  hotel?" 

Stretton  laughed  softly. 

"Hush!     This  is  your  home  now." 

He  opened  the  door  with  his  latch-key,  and  Alicia 
looked  into  a  lighted  hall,  the  walls  covered  with  old 
engravings  and  hunting  trophies. 

A  manservant  came  forward  quickly. 

"The  gentlemen  are  here,  sir." 

"Never  mind  the  gentlemen.    Fetch  in  the  bags." 

Alicia  still  hesitated  on  the  doorstep. 

"Stretton,"  she  whispered,  "are  you  sure  you  want 
me?" 

He  took  her  hand,  and  started  to  find  it  stone  cold. 

"My  dear!  How  cold  you  are!"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  Then  he  drew  her  into  the  hall  and  took  off  her 
fur  boa. 

"I  told  them  to  make  a  fire  in  your  bedroom.  Let  me 
take  you  up  at  once." 

He  put  her  arm  through  his  own,  and  took  her  up 
the  stairs.  On  the  landing  he  whispered  the  words, 
"Courage,  darling." 

In  the  bedroom,  lit  with  the  soft  light  of  many 
candles  and  a  glowing  fire,  Alicia  stood  silently  and 
swayed  a  little. 


218  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Stretton  strode  towards  her  and  put  his  arms  about 
her. 

"My  dear  . . .  you  are  not  ill?  ...  You  are  happy  . . . 
and  trust  me?" 

She  struggled  for  composure.  "No,  I  am  not  ill. 
...  a  little  faint,  that  is  all.  ...  It  is  all  so  strange 
...  so  wonderful!" 

She  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  let  her 
head  drop  upon  his  breast. 

"Stretton  .  .  .  you  are  not  making  a  mistake?  .  .  . 
You  want  me  to  live  with  you?  .  .  .  You  have  not 
lost  your  love  for  me?" 

She  panted,  and  Stretton  saw  that  she  was  moved 
with  a  great  emotion. 

He  pressed  her  close  to  him. 

"I  love  you  better  than  life.  I  cannot  do  without 
you.  By  God's  truth  I  will  be  good  to  you!" 

He  spoke  passionately  in  a  low  voice.  Then  as 
he  heard  the  baggage  being  brought  upstairs  he  stepped 
quickly  to  the  door. 

"We  will  wait  dinner  for  you,"  he  said.  "Dress  as 
you  like.  There  are  no  other  ladies." 

His  eyes  met  those  of  Alicia,  and  he  saw  that  they 
were  moist  with  tears.  But  a  colour  had  come  into  her 
face,  and  she  smiled  at  him  with  infinite  tenderness. 

As  he  went  downstairs  his  lips  moved  and  his  hand 
trembled  on  the  baluster.  From  the  dining-room  came 
the  sound  of  men's  voices  and  laughter.  He  paused 
before  the  door,  breathing  heavily,  and  from  the  iron 
lamp,  swinging  above,  the  light  fell  upon  a  rather  hag- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  219 

gard  and  very  serious  face.    He  swept  it  with  a  hand, 
and  forced  a  smile  as  he  opened  the  door. 

The  laughter  pealed  at  him,  and  then  there  was  a 
shout  of  "Wingfield!  Wingfield!"  and  a  fluty  voice 
which  asked,  "Where  the  devil's  that  dinner,  young 
man?" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

"Gooo  luck  to  the  Individualists,"  said  Stretton.  "| 
only  wish  there  were  more  of  us ! " 

"What  we  lack  in  quantity  we  have  in  quality,"  said 
the  fluty  voice — which  belonged  to  Hilary  Osgood,  the 
"Dainty  Desmoulins"  of  the  halfpenny  Press.  He 
wore  a  velvet  dinner  jacket,  and  since  Stretton  had  last 
seen  him  he  had  grown  his  hair  longer,  and  its  gold 
gleamed  round  a  fair  boyish  face,  singularly  sweet  and 
merry. 

"Yes,"  said  a  deep  and  rather  hoarse  voice,  "we 
look  a  pretty  set  of  scoundrels,  don't  we?  Our  little 
friend  Hilary,  par  exemple,  is  a  typical  leader  of 
revolution!" 

The  man  who  spoke  was  Cuthbert  Waynefleet,  the 
author  of  Individualism,  which  Stretton  had  called  the 
new  Magna  Charta. 

Hilary  sang  a  bar  of  "La  Marseillaise"  and  bowed  to 
Wingfield.  "Vive  1'Empereur!"  he  cried  gaily. 

A  tall,  gaunt,  long-nosed  man,  Lord  Percival  Percy, 
raised  a  drawling  voice. 

"We  have  had  a  devil  of  a  time.  Those  women! 
. .  .  Well,  thank  heaven  it's  all  over." 

"It's  just  beginning,  old  Praise-God-Bare-Bones,  and 

don't  you  make  no  mistake,"  said  Hilary. 

220 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  221 

"We'll  have  a  run  for  our  money,"  said  a  sporting- 
looking  young  man  who  happened  to  be  Lord  John 
Hutton.  "Don't  funk  the  ditches,  is  my  motto,  and 
a  dashed  good  one." 

"None  of  your  beastly  stable  slang,  Johnny,"  said 
Hilary  Osgood.  "Remember,  you're  a  legislator." 

"I'm  dashed  if  I  am,"  said  Lord  John.  "I'm  an 
Individualist,  I  take  it!" 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"Be  quite  sure,  dear  boy,"  said  Hilary.  "Don't  make 
a  mistake  in  the  House  and  vote  on  the  Government 
side." 

"Well,  I'm  a  sportsman,"  said  Lord  John  placidly. 
"Ill  follow  the  Whip." 

"Like  a  hound,"  said  Hilary. 

"Stretton,  my  noble  chief,"  said  a  whimsical  person 
who  had  a  distinct  resemblance  to  George  Grossmith, 
junior.  "Forgive  me  for  reminding  you  that,  intel- 
lectual as  we  are,  our  flesh  is  weak.  Where — in  the 
pointed  phrase  of  our  friend  Hilary — where  the  devil  is 
that  dinner?" 

"Lord  Edward  Moorhouse,"  said  Hilary,  "remember 
your  manners,  and  try  to  be  a  gentleman.  You  won't 
succeed,  but  there's  nothing  like  trying." 

Stretton  pulled  out  his  cigar-case  and  handed  it  to 
Lord  Edward. 

"Take  a  weed,  Teddy,  it'll  help  you  to  wait  a  bit 
longer."  There  was  a  general  dismay. 

"Wait?"   cried  Hilary  Osgood,   falling  backwards 


222  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

with  a  light  grace.    "  'Those  also  serve  who  only  stand 
and  wait!'    Alas,  I  cannot  stand,  I  faint." 

"Mine  host,"  said  the  deep  bass  of  Cuthbert  Wayne- 
fleet,  "I  should  be  loth  to  call  a  pox  upon  your  house. 
But  as  one  of  us  has  well  observed,  in  a  particularly 
bright  epigram,  the  flesh  is  weak." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Stretton  calmly.  "But  I  am 
expecting  a  lady  to  join  us.  We  cannot  begin  without 
her." 

There  was  a  sudden  silence,  which  was  interrupted 
by  a  ripple  of  laughter  from  Hilary  Osgood. 

"Tout  vient  a  qui  sait  attendre.  Cherchez  la  femme! 
Ce  n'est  que  la  premier  pas  qui  coute!  Liberte! 
Egalite!  Fraternite!  Pip!  Pip!" 

He  hummed  the  "Marseillaise"  again  with  an  agree- 
able smile.  Lord  Percival  Percy  walked  over  to  Stret- 
ton with  a  blank  stare. 

"I  say,  old  boy.  This  is  hardly  playing  the  game, 
is  it?  If  you'll  excuse  me  I'll  be  going.  Important  en- 
gagement. Beastly  sorry,  you  know." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Stretton.  "Don't  be  a  damned 
idiot." 

"As  a  sportsman,"  said  Lord  John  Hutton,  "I  object 
to  a  dark  horse." 

"It's  a  mare,  you  ass,"  said  Hilary. 

Stretton  flushed  angrily. 

"Look  here,  you  fellows,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  sup- 
pose you  weren't  brought  up  in  Houndsditch?" 

"Houndsditch?"  said  Hilary.  "Hounds-ditch. 
Twig?  Very  neat  that.  Ha!  ha!" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  223 

"The  lady  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  meet,"  said 
Stretton,  "is  not  accustomed  to  cads.  Perhaps  you 
will  remember  you  are  gentlemen." 

"Oh  lor,  are  we?"  said  Hilary.  "Now,  who'd  have 
thought  it?" 

"I'm  an  Individualist,"  said  John  Hutton. 

Cuthbert  Waynefleet  bore  down  their  voices.  His 
heavy  face,  pockmarked  and  square-jowled,  frowned 
on  the  other  men. 

"When  I  behave  with  any  discourtesy  to  a  woman, 
may  my  soul  go  straight  to  hell!" 

"I  second  that  proposition,"  said  Hilary,  with  his 
exquisite  smile. 

The  door  opened,  and  Stretton's  man  announced 
Alicia  Frensham. 

She  came  into  a  silent  room. 

She  wore  a  black  lace  dress  with  a  white  point  collar, 
a  simple  gown  that  became  her  tall  figure.  Her  brown- 
red  hair  was  looped  loosely  at  the  back,  and  she  held 
her  head  high.  She  did  not  show  the  nervousness  that 
possessed  her,  and  the  expression  of  her  serious  eyes 
and  sensitive  mouth  was  softened  by  a  rather  wistful 
smile  as  she  went  across  to  Stretton. 

"I  have  not  kept  you  waiting  too  long?"  she  asked. 

Stretton's  friends  looked  at  her  curiously  and  with 
astonishment,  in  which  perhaps  there  was  a  little 
shame.  They  had  not  expected,  though  perhaps  they 
could  not  have  explained  why,  a  woman  of  this  unusual 
and  spiritual  beauty.  Perhaps  Stretton's  character 
had  led  them  to  expect  another  type  of  woman.  Hilary 


224  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Osgood  drew  in  his  breath  quickly,  and  the  impudence 
of  his  expression  was  for  the  moment  extinguished. 

"We  have  not  been  too  impatient,"  said  Stretton, 
smiling  in  answer  to  her  question.  He  felt  the  swift 
effect  of  Alicia's  appearance  on  his  guests,  and  his  spirit 
was  greatly  elated.  Her  apparent  self-possession,  her 
quiet  grace  dispelled  his  anxiety  as  to  her  behaviour  in 
a  trying  situation. 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  Cuthbert  Wayne- 
fleet,  who  bowed  deeply  with  an  old-fashioned  dignity. 

"You  know  Mr.  Waynefleet  by  name,  Alicia?  Here 
he  is  in  the  flesh — the  father  of  Individualism.  His  is 
the  spirit  that  moves  us." 

Waynefleet  took  the  hand  Alicia  held  out  to  him,  and 
bent  low  over  it. 

"Our  friend  Wingfield  is  always  generous  with  his 
words.  My  spirit,  madam,  is  fettered  by  the  flesh, 
which  as  you  see  is  gross.  But  I  am  your  servant." 

A  smile  flickered  in  Alicia's  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  you  will  always  be  master,"  she  said. 
There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  but  Waynefleet  looked  at  her 
seriously. 

"They  accuse  me  of  an  overbearing  temper,"  he 
said.  "It  is  an  outrageous  lie,  madam.  I  am  as  gentle 
as  a  dove." 

"When  everybody  gives  way  to  him,"  said  Hilary. 

Alicia  smiled  at  the  young  painter,  who  had  moved 
towards  her. 

"You  are  Mr.  Hilary  Osgood,  are  you  not?"  she  said. 
"I  recognise  you  by  Stretton's  description." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  225 

"What  cruelty!"  cried  Hilary.  "I  shrink  at  the 
thought  of  Wingfield's  witticisms.  He  does  not  spare 
his  friends." 

"Oh,  I  flattered  you,"  said  Stretton,  laughing.  "To 
describe  you  as  you  are  would  be  too  candid  a  carica- 
ture." 

"Miss  Frensham,"  said  Hilary  earnestly,  "believe 
me  that  the  diabolical  appearance  that  my  mother  gave 
me  hides  an  innocent  and  guileless  heart." 

Alicia  looked  at  the  face,  with  its  daintily  clear-cut 
features  and  girlish  mouth,  and  she  laughed  with  a 
merriment  that  was  infectious  to  the  others. 

Stretton  did  not  introduce  them  all  to  her. 

"You  will  pick  them  out  later  on,"  he  said.  "As 
Individualists  they  are  more  or  less  individual,  and 
they  cannot  get  away  from  their  portraits  in  the  half- 
penny papers." 

"Yes,  we  are  labelled  for  life,"  said  Hilary.  "What 
we  shall  do  when  we  become  respectable " 

"You  never  will,"  said  Stretton.  "But  let  us  eat 
and  be  merry.  Waynefleet,  will  you  take  in  Miss 
Frensham?" 

He  opened  the  door,  and  Cuthbert  Waynefleet  lum- 
bered over  to  Alicia  and  gave  her  his  arm  with  grave 
deference. 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  he  said.  The  other  men  fell 
back  to  let  them  pass.  Alicia's  face  was  now  flushed 
so  that  her  beauty  was  more  striking.  But  the  anguish 
of  her  recent  life  had  left  its  marks  upon  her,  and  on 


226  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

her  face  there  was  always,  as  it  were,  the  memory  of 
pain. 

Hilary  held  back  to  the  last  and  whispered  to 
Stretton — 

"Who  is  she?  Have  you  brought  St.  Cecilia  back 
to  life?" 

Stretton  took  his  arm  and  marched  him  off. 

"Keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  cheek,  my  impertinent 
cherub." 

At  dinner  there  was  silence  over  the  first  plates. 

Cuthbert  Waynefleet  was  hungry  and  lapped  his 
soup  steadily,  and  as  he  sat  next  to  Alicia,  the  others, 
who  were  less  interested  in  each  other  than  in  this 
new  appearance  at  Stretton's  table,  followed  his  suit, 
though  with  less  evident  gusto.  Stretton  was  becoming 
nervous  again,  and  was  afraid  of  the  silence,  without 
having  the  courage  to  break  it.  But  when  Cuthbert 
Waynefleet  had  eased  his  hunger  pains  he  turned  to 
Alicia  and  rolled  out  a  sonorous  stream  of  talk.  With 
a  genius  for  monopolising  conversation,  he  made  his 
own  opening  and  plunged  into  a  vivid  description  of  a 
walk  he  had  taken  that  afternoon  in  the  slums  of 
Westminster.  He  had  met  a  dozen  strange  characters, 
from  whom  he  had  got  their  life  stories  over  a  bottle  of 
wine  in  a  dirty  tavern.  He  seemed  to  have  the  habit 
of  getting  to  the  heart  of  any  wretched  human  creature, 
and  as  a  philosopher  every  one  he  met  seemed  a  type, 
a  personification  of  vice,  or  misery,  or  folly,  or  heroism. 
Alicia  was  fascinated,  and  hardly  ate  a  morsel  while 
listening  to  his  grim,  powerful  portraits  and  pictures. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  227 

She  had  no  need  to  answer  him,  even  by  conventional 
phrases,  for  he  talked  best  when  he  had  a  good  listener, 
and  preferred  a  monologue. 

But  presently  his  natural  courtesy  put  a  check  upon 
his  tongue,  and  he  endeavoured  to  give  her  equal  oppor- 
tunity. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  Election  results,  madam? 
They  surprised  you?" 

Alicia  was  a  little  confused. 

"I  did  not  know  there  had  been  an  Election.  Has 
it  taken  place?" 

Stretton  flushed  uneasily. 

"Alicia!"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  annoyance  in  his 
voice.  He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  these  words  had 
caused  a  sensation  among  his  friends. 

Cuthbert  Waynefleet  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork 
and  gazed,  at  Alicia  with  an  amazement  which  changed 
gradually  to  admiration. 

"Prodigious!  Here  in  their  egotism  are  gathered 
together  the  leaders  of  a  new  party  who  imagined  they 
had  made  something  of  a  stir  in  the  world.  England 
has  been  hideous  with  the  vulgarity  and  obscene  noise 
of  party  strife.  Yet  the  gracious  lady  has  not  heard 
a  rumour  of  it!  Good  God,  what  a  lesson  for  the  vanity 
of  fools!  Madam,  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you." 

Alicia  flushed  deeply. 

"I  am  stupid.  But  I  ...  I  have  been  ill.  I  have  not 
seen  a  paper  for  a  fortnight.  Before  then  I  followed 
all  your  movements  and  read  all  your  speeches." 

"You  have  been    ill?"  said  Waynefleet,  with  an 


228  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

instant  tenderness.  "You  grieve  me.  And  I  must 
have  made  your  head  ache  with  my  foolish  flow  of 
words.  I  can  hardly  hope  for  forgiveness." 

He  poured  out  a  glass  of  port  wine. 

"It  will  strengthen  you,"  he  said.  "Pray  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  drink  it.  Ah,  that  is  better ! 
I  was  afraid  for  a  minute  you  might  be  too  severe  in 
the  principles  of  temperance." 

"Perhaps,"  he  went  on,  with  the  object  of  covering 
Alicia's  evident  embarrassment,  "London  does  not 
agree  with  you?  To  me  it  is  the  healthiest  and  happiest 
place  in  the  world — and  I  have  lived  in  many  places 
of  the  world.  But  there  are  some  natures,  delicate  and 
sensitive,  who  need  the  solitude  and  silence  of  the  coun- 
try. The  noise  of  London  appals  them,  and  they  are 
distressed  in  its  world  of  streets.  Do  you  find  that  so?" 

"I  have  only  been  in  London  half -an -hour,  and  never 
before  to-day.  But  in  spite  of  living  all  my  life  in  the 
country,  I  think  I  shall  like  the  town  best." 

At  this  confession  Hilary  Osgood  kicked  Lord  John 
Hutton  on  the  shin  so  that  he  spilt  his  wine. 

"You  have  never  been  in  town  before!"  said  Wayne- 
fleet,  recovering  from  his  surprise.  "That  is  most  inter- 
esting. I  hope  you  will  let  me  show  you  some  of  the 
wonders.  I  know  every  street  and  every  alley  of  it, 
and  I  love  each  one  of  its  grimy  stones." 

"Johnny,"  said  Hilary  Osgood  to  his  neighbour  in 
a  low  voice  while  Waynefleet  went  on  speaking,  "I  have 
a  theory." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  229 

"I  wish  you'd  keep  your  feet  to  yourself." 

"My  theory,"  said  Hilary,  "is  that  our  young 
friend  Stretton  has  been  playing  Pygmalion,  and  has 
brought  another  Galatea  to  life." 

"I  don't  mind  taking  a  sporting  bet  with  you,"  said 
John  Hutton,  "that  her  father  is  a  country  clergyman." 

"Hushl "  said  Hilary,  looking  scared.  "She's  not  one 
of  that  sort." 

"What's  she  here  for?"  said  Horsy  Hutton,  as  he 
was  sometimes  called. 

"If  she  ain't  a  goddess,  she's  a  saint,"  said  Hilary. 

"Ah!"  said  Lord  John.  "I  never  put  my  money  on 
a  saint;  d'ye  remember  Saint  Agatha?  She  broke  my 
jockey's  back  at  the  first  hedge." 

"Did  she,  by  Jove!"  said  Hilary.  He  looked  ear- 
nestly at  Alicia,  and  then  at  Stretton  Wingfield. 

"I  fancy  one  of  us  will  come  a  cropper." 

The  conversation  among  the  others  had  become  more 
general,  and  there  was  a  lively  rally  on  the  subject  of 
literary  London.  Stretton  and  Waynefleet  tried  to 
trip  each  other  over  the  localities  where  famous  writers 
had  lived.  They  both  were  at  fault  over  the  house 
where  Shelley  dwelt  in  his  youth.  It  was  Alicia  who 
put  them  right. 

"Was  it  not  in  Poland  Street?  I  remember  reading 
in  the  biography  of  his  friend  Hogg  how  Shelley  was  at- 
tracted by  the  trellised  paper,  and  touching  the  wall 
said,  'We  must  stay  here  for  ever!' ' 

Cuthbert  Waynefleet  patted  her  hand  approvingly. 


230  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Well  done!  Well  done!"  he  said.  "You  have  never 
been  to  London,  yet  you  have  beaten  us  all." 

Naturally  in  any  conversation  on  literary  London  the 
works  of  Charles  Dickens  came  up  for  review.  It  is 
an  evidence  of  the  wide  and  wonderful  popularity  of 
Dickens  that  in  almost  any  company  the  remembrance 
of  his  character  reveals  enthusiasm  and  knowledge. 
Stretton,  Waynefleet,  Moorhouse,  Hilary  Osgood,  and 
even  Percy,  who  hitherto  had  been  quite  silent,  joined 
in  the  tracking  down  of  Dickensian  characters  in  the 
highways  and  byways  of  London.  Alicia  gave  them  the 
lead,  and  baffled  them  several  times  by  naming  charac- 
ters which  they  had  forgotten  until  she  recalled  the 
scenes  in  which  they  appeared.  She  mentioned  Tom 
All-alone  in  Bleak  House. 

"I  can  imagine  that  gloomy  place,  with  its  iron  rail- 
ings, looking  through  into  the  dark  courtyard,  where 
rats  scrambled  for  the  scraps.  Does  it  still  exist? 

Waynefleet  was  the  only  man  who  knew  the  spot, 
and  he  launched  into  a  eulogy  of  Dickens'  wonderful 
realism.  "But  it  is  impertinent  of  me,"  he  said,  touch- 
ing Alicia's  hand  with  his  great  paw.  "I  thought  I 
knew  my  Dickens,  but  you  have  revealed  my  igno- 
rance." 

"Alicia  is  a  great  reader,"  said  Stretton.  He  was 
happy  that  she  had  impressed  these  men  of  culture  like 
Waynefleet  and  Osgood,  and  he  flashed  a  look  of  warm 
approval  at  her,  which  she  answered  with  a  grateful 
smile.  After  dinner  Stretton  took  his  guests  back  to  the 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  231 

smoking-room,  where  Hilary  Osgood  sat  down  to  the 
piano  and  sang  gay  little  French  songs  in  a  charming 
tenor,  while  the  other  men  talked  politics  with  Stretton 
over  cigars  and  coffee.  Alicia  sat  by  Hilary,  and  it 
was  to  her  he  sang,  swinging  round  between  each  song 
to  explain  the  meaning  of  the  old  French  words. 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,"  he  said.  "These  little  foolish 
things  have  been  but  the  chirruping  of  cherubs  to  St. 
Cecilia." 

"I  do  not  sing,"  said  Alicia. 

"Not  sing?"  said  Hilary.  "Why  you  sing  with  your 
eyes,  and  there  is  music  in  your  hair  and  in  the  move- 
ment of  your  hands!  When  you  speak  I  hear  the 
thrill  of  harp  strings,  and  when  you  laugh  it  is  the 
song  of  running  water." 

Alicia  laughed  softly  at  his  serious  foolishness,  and 
he  listened  to  her  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  with 
devout  expression. 

"Et  cum  spiritu  tuo,"  he  said,  as  if  her  laughter 
were  a  benediction. 

From  that  moment  he  called  her  St.  Cecilia,  and  it 
pleased  him  when  she  dubbed  him  "Bambino  mio." 

Stretton,  listening  with  one  ear  to  a  monologue  by 
Cuthbert  Waynefleet,  watched  Alicia  as  Hilary  prattled 
to  her,  and  she,  feeling  in  some  instinctive  way  that  his 
gaze  was  upon  her,  turned  once  or  twice  to  send  him 
a  message  of  the  eyes  across  the  room.  His  pulse 
throbbed,  and  he  was  nervously  excited.  Remorse 
flogged  him  as  he  thought  of  his  carelessness  and  forget- 


232  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

fulness  of  the  beautiful  woman.  These  men  admired 
her;  Hilary,  the  spoilt  plaything  of  duchesses  and 
smart  women,  fastidious  man  and  almost  blast,  was  in 
awe  of  her,  and  at  her  feet.  Cuthbert  Waynefleet  had 
whispered  to  him  in  his  violent  way  that  she  was  the 
most  "exquisite  soul  who  did  honour  to  the  Almighty, 
and  was  as  wise  as  she  was  good." 

What  a  blackguard  he  had  been  to  her!  And  yet 
he  had  not  really  forgotten  her.  He  had  never  meant 
to  forsake  her.  Directly  the  fierce  excitement  of  the 
Election  was  over  he  had  felt  the  need  of  this  pure  and 
restful  soul.  And  when  those  letters  had  reached  him 
it  was  not  without  passionate  remorse  and  an  irresist- 
ible yearning  that  he  had  read  her  words  of  love  and 
bitterness  and  final  reproach.  He  was  not  worthy  of 
her.  But  he  would  make  amends.  By  all  that  was 
holy,  he  would  do  his  best  to  make  her  happy! 

When  his  friends  took  their  leave  he  watched  with  a 
secret  pleasure  with  what  reverence  and  courtesy  they 
bent  over  Alicia's  hand.  He  was  thankful  they  had 
behaved  well,  and  had  not  treated  Alicia  with  the 
familiarity  they  would  have  shown  to  another  type  of 
woman. 

When  they  were  all  gone  she  came  to  him  and  put 
her  arms  on  his  shoulders,  all  her  gaiety  dying  out 

"Thank  God!  we  are  alone  at  last,"  she  said. 

"You  behaved  splendidly,  my  dear." 

"Oh!  ...  it  was  a  great  strain!  .  .  .  Stretton,  let 
me  sit  at  your  feet,  and  forget  everything  in  your  love! " 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  233 

The  candles  burned  dim,  and  then  flickered  and 
faded  out,  and  only  the  firelight  glowed  upon  Stretton 
as  through  the  hours  Alicia's  head  rested  upon  his 
knees,  and  he  spoke  of  his  remorse,  of  his  love,  of  his 
desire  to  make  her  happy,  and  of  all  the  good  days 
that  the  future  held  for  them. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

To  Alicia  Frensham  London  was  a  wonderland, 
through  which  she  roamed  during  four  weeks  dreamily. 
Or  rather  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  asleep 
during  all  her  former  life  and  was  now  awake.  She 
exulted  in  the  tumult  of  the  streets  as  a  Midland  man  or 
woman  who  first  visits  the  coast  and  is  excited  by  the 
sound  and  fury  of  the  sea.  She  loved  the  crowd,  and 
came  from  the  jostlings  and  hubbub  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes.  Yet  she  loved  also  the 
quietude  of  back  streets  and  such  haunts  of  ancient 
peace  as  the  courtyards  of  the  Temple  and  the  Abbey 
cloisters,  where  she  went  with  Stretton  and  lingered 
silently,  with  old  memories  and  old  ghosts  about  her. 
She  had  a  child-like  desire  for  exploration  and  a 
curiosity  that  was  never  satisfied.  A  dark  alley  with 
an  archway  in  Fleet  Street  or  the  Strand  was  a  tempta- 
tion to  stray  from  the  straight  path  of  a  journey  which 
she  could  not  resist,  and  plucking  at  Stretton's  sleeve, 
she  led  him  into  narrow  courts  or  slummy  little  streets 
in  spite  of  his  laughing  protests. 

"I  like  to  know  what  is  at  the  back  of  things." 
Her  imagination  was  stirred  by  things  that  seemed 
commonplace  to  Stretton.     The  tablet  in  the  house 
in  Bread  Street  to  the  memory  of  Milton  made  her 

234 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  235 

thrill  with  excitement.  Before  Cleopatra's  Needle  on 
the  Embankment  she  stood  long,  and  as  though  she 
looked  backwards  through  the  three  thousand  years 
when  it  was  first  raised  on  Egyptian  sands.  In  West- 
minster Abbey  she  was  shocked  at  Stretton's  levity 
about  the  sculptured  monuments.  She  did  not  see  how 
hideous  many  of  them  are,  how  horribly  disconcerting 
in  this  place  of  solemn  peace  where  Death  and  Time 
show  the  stupidity  of  fame.  She  was  thrilled  with 
thoughts  of  the  dust  that  lay  beneath  them,  and  her  in- 
stincts of  art  were  destroyed  here  by  her  historical 
imagination.  The  atmosphere  of  the  Abbey  and  its 
dim  majesty  overwhelmed  her,  and  to  Stretton's  alarm 
she  suddenly  disappeared  from  his  side,  and  he  found 
her  in  the  cloisters  in  tears. 

To  Stretton  these  weeks  of  sight-seeing  with  her 
were  surpassingly  pleasant.  He  forgot  himself  in 
studying  the  woman  at  his  side,  whose  freshness  of 
emotion  and  impression  gave  him  a  new  sense  of  en- 
joyment in  life,  and  brought  back  something  of  his  old 
boyishness.  Her  astonishing  simplicity  and  the  purity 
of  her  nature  took  the  sting  from  the  vague,  feeling  of 
uneasiness  with  which  he  sometimes  regarded  their 
unconventional  alliance.  He  fooled  himself  into  a 
sense  of  security  and  virtue  which  enabled  him  to 
enjoy  her  presence  as  if — so  he  put  it  to  himself  in  a 
pretty  phrase — she  were  his  sister.  The  passion  of 
his  first  love  for  her  seemed  to  have  left  him — though 
sometimes  the  touch  of  her  hand,  or  the  glint  of  gold 
in  her  hair,  or  the  tremulous  quiver  of  her  throat  when 


236  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

she  was  excited  thrilled  him.  But,  as  he  argued  with 
inward  satisfaction,  she  was  now  a  quiet  and  refreshing 
influence,  a  source  of  intellectual  sweetness,  in  which 
he  could  forget  for  a  time  the  hot  ambitions  and  his 
restlessness.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  after  a 
harassing  political  campaign,  with  the  excitement  of  a 
parliamentary  session  before  him,  he  abandoned  him- 
self absolutely  to  an  interregnum  of  love-in-idleness. 
Yet  they  were  seldom  alone,  not  really  alone,  as  they 
had  been  at  Long  Stretton  in  the  school-house.  Wing- 
field's  bachelor  friends  came  to  his  house  in  Duke 
Street  at  all  times  of  the  day — Hilary  Osgood  arriving 
even  at  breakfast-time  on  many  mornings.  As  a 
painter  he  allowed  himself  the  privileges  of  Bohemian- 
ism,  among  which  was  the  habit  of  visiting  at  an  early 
hour.  It  was  impossible  to  resent  his  intrusion,  at 
least  to  a  man  of  Stretton's  temperament,  for  he 
brought  an  early  morning  sunshine  with  him. 

"There  is  one  thing,"  he  said,  "which  makes  me 
sigh  at  my  bachelorhood.  I  cannot  eat  my  breakfast 
alone  in  a  studio  which  reeks  of  last  night's  cigars  and 
the  rumpled  memories  of  midnight  conversation. 
Stretton,  dear  noble  friend,  let  me  pay  for  my  break- 
fast with  you  if  you  will,  but  do  not  deny  me  your 
morning  table." 

Stretton  was  accustomed  to  this  little  habit  of 
Hilary's,  which  had  been  amusing  enough  in  his  single 
days,  but  now  that  Alicia  served  the  coffee  he  was 
inclined  to  protest  against  this  domiciliary  visit.  But 
Hilary  ignored  his  frown  and  his  coolness,  and  with 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  237 

a  charming  grace  served  his  host  with  his  own  bacon, 
while  he  regaled  him  also  with  tit-bits  of  gossip  and 
news.  So  it  happened  that  in  their  morning  expeditions 
Hilary  often  accompanied  them,  swearing  that  to-day 
he  felt  in  a  holiday  mood,  and  would  rather  face  a  tiger 
than  a  blank  canvas.  Indeed,  he  had  always  a  hundred 
suggestions  for  the  entertainment  of  Alicia,  and  argued 
in  their  favour  with  such  sham  eloquence  that  Stretton 
would  have  to  let  him  take  the  lead  for  the  sake  of 
peace  while  he  read  the  newspaper.  And  Alicia  was 
amused  beyond  measure  by  the  Bambino,  as  she  called 
him. 

"What  a  child  it  is!"  she  said  to  Stretton.  "And  to 
think  that  he  is  a  member  of  Parliament! " 

"Unless  ye  become  as  little  children,"  said  Hilary, 
who  had  heard  the  remark,  "ye  shall  not  enter  the 
House  of  Commons." 

He  insisted  on  taking  them  to  the  Zoo  one  day,  and 
Stretton  had  a  pang  of  jealousy,  swift  and  sudden,  so 
that  it  brought  the  blood  to  his  face,  when  he  saw 
Alicia  and  Hilary  sitting  on  the  side  saddle  of  an  ele- 
phant and  holding  hands  like  two  babies.  He  had  re- 
fused to  take  part  in  such  childishness,  protesting  that 
old  age  sat  too  heavily  on  his  shoulders  to  permit  of 
such  a  public  exhibition.  But  as  he  stayed  by  the  lad- 
ders and  saw  Hilary's  ecstatic  look  and  Alicia's  smiling 
face,  as  the  great  beast  lumbered  off,  he  felt  this  stupid 
resentment  at  the  familiarity  between  his  friend  and  his 
. . .  mistress.  The  word  by  which  he  called  her  slipped 


238  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

into  his  thoughts  unconsciously,  and  then  he  became 
aware  of  it  and  was  curiously  shocked.  His  mistress! 
Yes,  that  was  the  plain  brutal  truth  of  it.  His  friends 
had  not  said  a  word  about  his  relations  with  this  woman 
in  his  house.  They  had  taken  everything  for  granted, 
as  men  of  the  world  do  in  such  cases.  But  among 
themselves  they  would  talk  about  it.  And  they  would 
call  her  by  a  coarser  name,  "Wingfield's  keep."  That 
was  the  modern  way  of  putting  it.  Hilary  up  there, 
looking  as  discreet  as  a  cherub,  told  stories  in  the 
smoking-room  that  would  make  the  devil  blush.  He 
behaved  with  propriety  to  Alicia,  but  in  his  mind  she 
was  just  "Wingfield's  keep".  .  .  .  Damn  him. 

Stretton  stuffed  his  last  bun  into  an  elephant's  trunk, 
and  paced  up  and  down  moodily  till  the  other  beast 
came  back.  His  imagination  was  startled  by  a  look 
into  the  future.  What  was  he  going  to  do  with  Alicia? 
What  would  happen  when  she  found  out,  as  inevitably 
she  must  do,  that  she  was  not  an  honest  woman  in  the 
eyes  of  the  men  who  were  so  amiable  to  her  .  .  .  that 
they  would  never  dream  of  introducing  her  to  their 
sisters  . . .  that  she  was)  as  much  a  social  outcast  as  any 
painted  woman  in  Piccadilly?  By  God!  Could  he 
trust  Hilary,  and  the  others  who  had  praised  Alicia's 
beauty  and  her  serious  grace?  There  was  no  honour 
among  thieves,  and  where  women  were  concerned  they 
were  all  thieves.  A  black  suspicion  settled  upon  him, 
and  when  Alicia  and  Hilary  came  riding  back  Stretton's 
face  was  white  and  gloomy. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  239 

Hilary  scampered  down  the  ladder,  and  held  out 
his  hands  to  Alicia.  She  took  them  and  jumped  lightly 
to  the  ground  with  a  ripple  of  laughter. 

"It  was  great  and  glorious!"  cried  Hilary.  "The 
spirit  of  eternal  childhood  has  its  home  in  the  Zoo." 

"Yes,  you  have  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
monkey,"  said  Stretton. 

Alicia  was  startled  by  his  tone  of  speech  and  by  the 
ruffled  expression  of  his  face.  She  wondered  what  had 
happened  to  annoy  him,  and  put  her  hand  through  his 
arm. 

But  Hilary  was  taken  up  with  his  own  enjoyment. 

"It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here,"  he  said.  "Let  us  build 
three  tabernacles,  one  for  you,  and  one  for  Alicia,  and 
one  for  me." 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Wingfield  was  silent 
and  distrait,  but  Hilary's  pranks  and  merriment  kept 
Alicia  laughing.  His  observations  in  the  monkey-house 
brought  a  little  group  of  people  about  them,  much  to 
Stretton's  annoyance. 

"How  humanity  caricatures  its  ancestors,"  said 
Hilary,  pointing  to  a  group  of  serious  apes.  "If  only 
the  House  of  Commons  had  the  dignity  of  those  primi- 
tive men!"  He  put  a  hand  on  Stretton's  arm.  "My 
dear  old  chap,"  he  said,  "look  at  that  young  baboon. 
It  is  absolutely  like  you!  And  that  old  chimpanzee, 
upon  my  soul  he  is  the  living  image  of  my  respected 
grandfather!  How  heredity  does  count!" 

"I    suppose   you're   a   sort   of    throw-back,"    said 


240  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Stretton.     "I've  often  wondered  why  you're  so  fond 
of  nuts." 

"Yes,  and  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  that's  why 
you  always  put  your  feet  on  the  mantel-piece,"  returned 
Hilary.  "It's  the  nearest  thing  to  hanging  head  down- 
wards by  your  tail!" 

Stretton  smiled  grimly,  but  his  moodiness  continued 
for  the  afternoon,  until  at  last  under  the  depressing  in- 
fluence of  it  even  Hilary,  after  some  wild  adventures 
with  jam  tarts  and  a  polar  bear,  suggested  that  it  was 
time  for  a  cab  home.  He  slipped  out  at  the  corner  of 
Portland  Place,  and  kissed  two  hands  to  them  through 
the  window. 

"A  golden  memory!"  he  said.  "God  bless  you 
both." 

Alicia  put  her  hands  into  Stretton's. 

"My  dear,  what  is  the  matter?  Have  I  annoyed 
you?" 

"Aren't  you  getting  a  bit  too  friendly  with  that 
young  jackanapes?"  said  Stretton  with  a  touch  of 
irritation. 

Alicia  was  thoughtful. 

"I  will  not  speak  to  him  again  if  you  would  rather 
not,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  be  friendly 
with  your  friends." 

Stretton  laughed,  thrusting  back  his  ill  humour  as  he 
saw  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  making  himself  ridic- 
ulous. 

"Forgive  me  for  being  an  ass !    I  had  a  stupid  jeal- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  241 

ousy  when  I  saw  you  playing  the  babe  with  Hilary! 
I  found  that  I  was  feeling  elderly  and  it  gave  me  a 
twinge." 

"Oh,  Stretton,"  said  Alicia  tremulously.  "You  will 
never  have  cause  for  jealousy.  I  only  live  in  your 
love.  If  I  ever  doubted  that  I  think  I  should  die." 

"Do  you  ever  doubt  it?" 

Stretton  put  his  arm  about  her  and  pressed  her  to 
his  side. 

"Not  now,"  said  Alicia  softly. 

"Ah!"  said  Stretton,  wincing.  "You  still  remember 
my  cruel  carelessness!" 

Alicia  put  her  hands  on  his  lips. 

"I  only  remember  your  goodness  to  a  lonely  village 
girl.  .  .  .  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  remember  nothing,  but 
live  only  in  this  present  dream." 

This  was  the  real  truth.  Since  Alicia  had  come  to 
London,  she  had  not  allowed  herself  to  think  in  the 
past  or  in  the  future.  Not  in  the  past  because  the 
terror  of  those  recent  weeks  and  the  loss  of  the  child 
life  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  so  passionately 
remained  as  a  deep  wound  which  she  dared  not  probe; 
and  not  in  the  future  because  to  be  with  Stretton,  to 
share  his  daily  life,  to  live  in  the  turmoil  of  London, 
to  listen  to  the  conversation  of  men  who  were  distin- 
guished in  letters,  in  art,  or  in  the  social  world,  gave  her 
no  time  or  wish  to  peer  into  what  was  to  come.  .  .  . 

Hilary  was  only  one  of  the  men  who  came  to  the 
quiet  house  in  Duke  Street.  In  the  afternoon  many  of 


242  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

the  Individualists  came  to  tea.  Lord  Edward  Moor- 
house,  Stretton's  "Teddy,"  was  a  frequent  visitor. 
Alicia  liked  him  because  he  seemed  to  her  so  typical  of 
all  she  had  read  or  imagined  of  the  young  English 
gentleman.  He  had  not  the  whimsicality  of  Hilary  or 
the  eccentric  beauty.  He  was  a  smart,  well-groomed, 
clean-shaven  man  with  no  ideals,  no  literary  taste  or 
knowledge,  and  absolutely  no  pose.  But  he  was  fresh 
and  wholesome,  laughed  easily  and  showed  strong  white 
teeth,  was  always  amiable  in  a  quiet,  self-contained 
way,  and  had  grey  eyes  that  looked  out  upon  the  world 
with  kindness.  He  had  a  profound  respect  for  Stret- 
ton's intellect,  knowing  his  own  ignorance,  and  to  Alicia 
he  was  always  polite  and  attentive,  eager  to  jump  up  to 
hand  round  cups  when  she  poured  out  tea,  and  always 
ready  to  make  conversation  with  her  when  the  other 
men  were  taken  up  with  their  own  arguments.  He  was 
the  most  ordinary  and  undistinguished  of  Stretton's 
visitors,  but  Alicia  liked  the  plain,  well-dressed  young 
man  with  the  brown  face  and  tanned,  well-kept  hands. 
For  Lord  John  Hutton,  with  his  stable  slang  and 
horsy  manners,  and  for  Lord  Percival,  with  his  drawl 
and  stupid  conceit,  she  had  no  liking  at  all  but  an 
instinctive  aversion,  which  she  tried  to  overcome  for 
Stretton's  sake,  and  Cuthbert  Waynefleet  did  not 
altogether  please  her,  for  there  was  something  about 
this  unwieldy,  heavy-faced  man  that  gave  her  a  vague 
dread  of  him.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  fascinated 
her  with  his  Johnsonian  eloquence,  his  domineering 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  243 

manners,  his  old-fashioned  dignity,  and  his  never- 
failing  courtesy  to  herself. 

She  put  a  question  one  day  to  Stretton  about  him, 
so  abruptly  that  he  was  rather  startled. 

"Is  he  really  a  bad  man?"  she  said.  "You  once 
told  me  he  was  a  libertine." 

"Waynefleet?"  said  Stretton,  with  momentary  hesi- 
tation. "Well,  he  is  not  an  angel  .  .  .  but  he  is  an 
intellectual  giant,  and  in  these  days  of  pigmy  people 
it  is  no  use  bothering  about  the  private  life  of  such 
a  man." 

He  fulfilled  his  promise  to  Alicia  to  show  her  some 
of  the  sights  of  London,  and  arrived  one  day  at  eleven 
o'clock,  dressed  with  rather  more  care  than  usual,  in 
a  frock-coat  with  full  skirts,  and  a  sword-stick  under 
his  arm,  with  an  invitation  to  take  her  to  the  Tower. 

"Don't  you  ask  me,  too?"  said  Stretton. 

"No,  my  young  friend,  it  is  time  you  wrote  an  article 
for  The  Tribune  on  the  future  of  Individualism  or 
some  other  subject  of  'light  topical  interest.'  I  could 
not  be  interrupted  by  cynical  modern  comments  in  the 
last  stronghold  of  medisevalism." 

"I  have  never  been  to  the  Tower  in  my  life,"  said 
Stretton.  "I  thought  only  suburban  fathers  took  their 
children  there." 

"That  shows  again  the  intellectual  superiority  of  the 
suburbs." 

Waynefleet  would  not  listen  to  Stretton's  wish  to  go 
with  him,  or  to  Alicia's  pleadings  on  Stretton's  behalf. 


244  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"This  is  my  day  out,"  he  said,  "and  I  prefer  a 
tete-a-tete  with  madam.  If  she  prefers  not  to  come, 
let  her  say  so,  and  I  will  beg  forgiveness  for  my  selfish- 
ness, and  return  to  my  article  for  the  New  Encyclo- 
pedia." 

So  Alicia  went  with  him,  a  little  reluctantly,  but  was 
soon  bewitched  by  his  vast  store  of  knowledge  and 
power  of  expression.  He  took  the  Tower  as  his  test, 
and  for  three  hours  revealed  to  her  the  meaning  of  Eng- 
lish history  and  the  spirit  of  mediaevalism.  The  stones 
spoke  to  him,  and  he  met  old  ghosts  in  those  grim 
walls.  Alicia  was  strangely  moved  by  his  emotion. 
Over  the  stone  on  Tower  Green,  and  in  the  chapel  of 
St.  Peter  of  the  Chain,  he  wept  quite  frankly,  great 
tears  that  rolled  down  his  cheeks  as  he  spoke  of  the 
fair  and  noble  heads  that  had  fallen,  and  of  the  great 
dust  buried  there.  The  poetry,  the  spiritism,  the 
brutality  and  cruelty,  the  simple  faith  and  endurance, 
the  unconscious  and  self-conscious  heroism  of  the 
Middle  Ages  became  revealed  to  Alicia  by  this  strange 
guide  more  vividly,  and  with  more  intense  impression- 
ism, than  ever  before,  and  her  sensitive  nature  was  ex- 
cited painfully  by  the  magic  spell  of  his  gloomy 
imagination  and  powerful  impressionism. 

"People  call  me  a  modern,"  he  said,  "because  I  pre- 
tend to  deal  with  the  political  situation  of  the  day,  and 
to  analyse  the  social  conditions  of  this  present  civilisa- 
tion. But  by  instinct  I  am  a  mediaevalist.  I  should 
have  been  at  home  in  Chaucer's  days  when  individual- 
ism counted  far  more  than  now.  Perhaps — who 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  245 

knows? — I  might  have  sat  at  the  right  hand  of  a  king, 
and  directed  the  destiny  of  a  nation." 

Though  he  was  a  poor  man  and  frugal  in  his  habits, 
excepting  the  deep  draughts  of  port  wine  in  which  he 
found  warmth,  he  had  taken  Alicia  to  the  Tower  in  a 
hansom,  and  as  a  symbol  of  magnificence,  kept  it  wait- 
ing during  the  three  hours  of  their  visit.  On  the 
journey  home  he  thanked  Alicia  in  his  grave  courtly 
way  for  the  great  favour  she  had  given  him. 

"It  has  been  a  day,  madam,  that  I  shall  remember 
always.  Such  hours  of  imagination  come  only  rarely 
in  a  lifetime.  Only  a  woman — women  are  always  gen- 
erous and  self-sacrificing — would  have  been  so  full  of 
sympathy  with  a  man  of  moodiness  like  me,  a  man 
gross  and  battered  and  ugly.  I  am  deeply  indebted  to 
you." 

"It  has  been  a  wonderful  day  to  me,"  said  Alicia 
quickly.  "I,  too,  shall  never  forget  it.  I  have  learnt 
so  much!" 

"You  have  been  very  patient  and  beautiful,"  said 
Waynefleet.  "Beauty  and  patience  are  to  me  the  best 
of  virtues." 

"Is  beauty  a  virtue?"  said  Alicia,  smiling. 

"The  crown  of  virtue,"  said  Waynefleet  earnestly. 

"Alas,  then!"  said  Alicia,  "I  have  no  crown." 

Waynefleet  looked  at  her  gravely  again,  and  then 
in  a  strange  and  thrilling  voice  he  said — 

"By  God,  madam,  you  are  much  too  beautiful  and 
good  for  such  as  Stretton  Wingfield." 

Alicia  went  white  and  shrank  from  his  side. 


246  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"How  dare  you  say  that?"  she  said  angrily. 

"Nay,"  said  Waynefleet  hurriedly.  "I  meant  noth- 
ing against  my  young  friend.  You  are  too  good  for 
any  man  less  than  a  saint."  He  put  his  great  hand  on 
Alicia's  and  said  gently,  "Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  dear 
lady,  you  misinterpreted  my  words." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

HALF-WAY  down  Pall  Mall,  on  their  way  home  to 
Duke  Street,  Alicia  suddenly  put  her  hand  on  Cuthbert 
Waynefleet's  arm,  and  in  ai  queer  voice  said,  "Will  you 
stop  the  driver,  please?" 

Waynefleet  thrust  open  the  trap  and  called  "Stop I" 
with  a  violence  which  caused  the  man  to  pull  his  horse 
on  to  its  haunches. 

"What  is  wrong?"  said  Waynefleet,  searching  the 
flushed  face  of  the  woman  as  she  put  the  doors  open. 

"Nothing,"  said  Alicia  hurriedly,  "but  I  see  a  friend 
of  mine.  ...  I  must  speak  to  him.  Forgive  me  ... 
and  a  thousand  thanks." 

She  flashed  a  smile  at  him,  so  that  the  clouds  that 
had  gathered  on  his  brow  were  almost  dispelled. 

As  the  hansom  rattled  off  Waynefleet  saw  her  race 
lightly  through  the  crowd  after  a  tall  figure  going  down 
Pall  Mall  with  a  heavy  stride. 

The  glimpse  was  enough  to  satisfy  Waynefleet  that, 
whoever  it  might  be,  it  was  not  Stretton,  and  he  smiled 
grimly  into  the  little  mirror  of  the  cab. 

Alicia  overtook  the  man  and  came  breathlessly  to 
his  side. 

"David!"  she  said,  "David!" 

It  was  David  Heath  in  a  grey  tweed  suit  with  a  soft 

247 


248  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

felt  hat.  He  turned  instantly  at  her  voice  and  flushed 
deeply  with  an  uneasy  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Alicia?    I  ...  I  ...  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you." 

He  stammered  miserably  and  stared  down  Pall  Mall 
towards  Trafalgar  Square,  which  was  a  golden  place 
in  the  afternoon  sun  of  an  October  day. 

Alicia's  face  fell,  and  a  sudden  mist  of  tears  came 
to  her  eyes.  His  coldness  hurt  her.  She  had  expected 
him  to  be  so  glad  at  their  meeting. 

"You  .  .  .  you  heard  I  had  been  ill?" 

"Yes,"  said  David  gravely.     "Are  you  better?" 

"Did  you  know  I  had  left  the  village?" 

"Yes  . . .  my  father  wrote." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it,  but  his 
hand  trembled  violently. 

"I  think  I  must  be  off.    Good-bye." 

He  raised  his  hat,  but  as  he  looked  at  her  white  face 
and  saw  the  sorrow  in  her  eyes  he  faltered  and  moved 
closer  to  her. 

"Shall  we  talk  somewhere?  The  National  Gallery 
...  a  tea-shop?  One  can  say  nothing  in  the  street." 

"If  you  are  in  a  hurry  I  will  not  worry  you.  I 
thought  perhaps  you  would  be  glad  to  see  me  again." 

There  was  a  break  in  her  voice  which  moved  David 
painfully. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  ...  I  did  not  mean  to 
be  so  boorish.  Of  course  I'm  glad." 

They  went  down  Pall  Mall. 

"Perhaps  the  Gallery  would  be  best,"  said  David. 
"It's  student's  day,  and  we  could  get  a  quiet  room." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  249 

They  went  into  the  Tuscan  School  and  found  a  seat 
in  a  small  gallery  with  the  Saint  Sebastian  of  an  early 
master. 

"Tell  me,"  said  David.  "Are  you  well  ...  and 
happy?" 

"I  think  I  am  well,"  said  Alicia,  "and  I  know  I  am 
happy.  My  happiness  is  like  a  dream,  David." 

David  looked  up  at  her  and  then  down  at  the  floor. 

"I  pray  God  there  will  be  no  awakening." 

"You  know  I  am  with  Stretton?" 

David  groaned. 

"I  guessed  it." 

"And  are  you  sorry?  .  . .  You  blame  me?" 

"I  am  profoundly  sorry.  But  I  do  not  blame  you. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  blame." 

Alicia  was  silent. 

"I  think  you  do  blame  me,"  she  said  presently.  "I 
think  you  imagine  all  sorts  of  horrible  things  and  look 
upon  me  as  a  woman  who  has  betrayed  every  moral 
law.  Oh,  but  surely  you  are  not  so  narrow-minded, 
David?" 

"I  suppose  I  am  as  narrow-minded  as  most  men. 
Anyhow,  I  believe  in  law.  The  more  I  see  of  life,  the 
more  I  believe  in  law." 

"Do  you  mean  religion — the  stupid,  stuffy,  cruel 
old  laws  of  orthodoxy?" 

"I  mean  moral  law,  which  is  the  basis  of  all  religion." 

Alicia  laughed  softly. 

"My  dear  David,  at  the  end  of  all  our  arguments  I 


250  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

have  always  found  we  were  in  absolute  agreement.  Do 
you  think  I  revolt  against  moral  law?" 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  said  David  with  deep  anxiety. 
"Are  you  married  to  Stretton  Wingfield?" 

Alicia  was  thoughtful. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  think  so.  Yes,  certainly  we 
are  married.  I  told  you  we  were  living  together." 

David  passed  a  hand  over  a  haggard  face. 

"You  think  so!"  he  said,  with  a  grim  and  hollow 
laugh.  "You  think  you  are  married  I" 

Two  lovers  came  into  the  gallery  and  passed  through 
hand  in  hand,  giving  but  a  glance  at  the  pictures. 
David  lowered  his  voice,  but  spoke  huskily. 

"Alicia!  oh  my  God,  you  are  making  a  fearful  mis- 
take! You  are  not  married.  I  tell  you  you  are  not 
married!  One  of  these  days  that  man  will  tire  of  you 
and  break  with  a  brutal  hand  the  partnership  that  now 
seems  to  you  so  blessed  and  enduring.  What  will  you 
do  then?" 

"I  should  die  perhaps,  or  go  mad;  who  knows?" 

"And  yet  you  take  this  risk?" 

"Yes.    I  take  it  gladly." 

"It's  the  risk,"  said  David,  "the  risk.  Good  God, 
I  don't  pose  as  a  Christian  hero  or  a  moral  philosopher. 
This  is  not  a  question  of  faith.  But  don't  you  see  you 
are  putting  aside  the  experiences  of  a  million  women? 
They  believed  as  you  do  that  it  would  last  for  ever. 
And  they  were  abandoned  by  the  men  who  had  sworn 
fidelity.  You  set  on  one  side  the  experience  of  a  million 
broken  hearts!" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  251 

Alicia  said  simply — 

"I  believe  in  Stretton's  love,  dear  David." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  marry  you?    Tell  me  that!" 

"He  does  not  think  it  necessary.  Love  is  a  stronger 
bond  than  law." 

"Oh,  folly!"  groaned  David.  "Horrible,  ghastly 
folly!" 

He  got  up  and  paced  up  and  down  before  her. 

"If  ever  he  deserts  you,"  he  said,  "I  will  see  that 
he  does  not  escape  scot  free  like  other  scoundrels.  I 
will  break  him  into  bits,  and  trample  him  into  mother 
dirt." 

"Hush!"  said  Alicia,  white  to  the  lips.  "Hush! 
they  will  hear  you!  I  would  not  hear  such  words 
from  any  one  but  you." 

"Tell  me,"  said  David.  "Does  he  treat  you  like 
an  honest  woman?  Does  he  introduce  you  to  his 
friends?" 

"Yes.    They  come  every  day  to  our  house." 

Alicia's  voice  had  a  touch  of  triumph  in  it 

"To  his  women  friends?" 

Alicia  hesitated. 

"He  is  a  bachelor.  I  do  not  know  that  he  has 
any  women  friends." 

David  laughed  cynically. 

"A  society  man  and  no  women  friends!  Where  are 
the  sisters  and  the  wives  of  the  men  you  meet?" 

Alicia  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"We  are  talking  stupidly.  Tell  me  about  yourself, 
David.  How  are  you  getting  on?" 


252  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

David  could  not  answer,  and  strode  silently  through 
the  galleries,  looking  so  haggard  and  stern  that  the 
students  turned  to  stare  at  him — this  long  lean,  power- 
ful man  of  democratic  type,  with  a  beautiful  woman  by 
his  side,  who  held  her  head  high  with  its  sad  eyes  and 
pain-drawn  mouth. 

"What  drama  is  that?"  said  a  young  painter  to  a 
girl  in  a  long  sketching  coat. 

"Paolo  and  Francesca,  I  should  say!" 

"A  good  model  for  Beatrice — that  Rossetti  head." 

David  and  Alicia  said  good-bye  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Gallery  steps. 

"I  am  sorry  I  spoke  like  a  brute.  You  know  it's 
because  we  have  been  such  friends." 

"My  poor  David!  You  have  been  my  best  of 
friends." 

She  hesitated. 

"Won't  you  come  and  see  us  sometimes?  Stretton 
would  be  glad." 

David  started. 

"Good  heavens,  no!  ...  I  couldn't!  .  .  .  But  I  am 
always  at  Erasmus  Hall,  always  in  the  mornings  and 
evenings.  If  you  would  come  there " 

"Perhaps  I  will,  one  day  ...  if  you  would  not  be 
ashamed  of  me." 

"Good  God!"  said  David,  "ashamed 1" 

Alicia  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  crushed  it  in  his 
grip  so  that  she  almost  cried  out.  Then  he  turned  and, 
lifting  his  hat,  strode  away  into  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  Individualists,  as  Alicia  had  learnt  on  the 
night  of  her  arrival  at  Duke  Street,  when  she  had  be- 
trayed her  ignorance  of  the  Election,  had  just  saved 
themselves  from  ignominious  defeat.  Out  of  sixty 
candidates  twenty  had  been  returned  to  Parliament. 
The  Constitutionalists,  who  had  held  their  majority, 
could  afford  to  laugh  at  them  good-humouredly.  But 
the  Socialists,  whose  votes  they  had  split,  and  to  whom 
they  were  both  nearest  and  furthest  in  political  doc- 
trines— nearest  because  they  posed  as  representatives 
of  the  democratic  party,  and  furthest  because  they  blas- 
phemed against  the  gospel  of  Socialism — poured  vitriol 
upon  their  heads  as  heretics  and  hypocrites. 

Stretton  Wingfield,  who  had  made  a  bid  for  the 
leadership  of  the  new  party,  was  frightfully  disheart- 
ened by  the  Election  results.  Alicia  never  knew,  or 
guessed  the  suffering  of  the  man  during  the  suspense 
of  the  polling  days,  when  he  had  been  like  a  general 
who  receives  news  of  defeat  after  defeat  upon  his 
scattered  forces.  This  acute  mental  tension  it  was 
that  had  caused  his  neglect  of  her  letters,  which  had 
remained  unopened — not  at  his  flat,  as  he  had  said  in 
self-excuse,  but  at  the  hotel  which  had  been  his  head- 
quarters, and  to  which  they  had  been  duly  forwarded. 

253 


254  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

By  an  extraordinary  and  unfortunate  coincidence  the 
defeats  had  come  first,  like  a  volley  of  knockdown 
blows  to  Stretton.  Pauncefoote  was  thrown  at  Man- 
chester, Montgomery  at  Hull,  Sidgwick  at  Bolton, 
Winkworth  at  Oldham,  Stubbs  at  Preston,  Halliday  at 
Sheffield,  Macarthy  at  Leeds,  Swainton  at  Lancaster, 
and  Barnaby  at  Newcastle.  Within  three  days  the 
Individualists  had  lost  all  their  best  men  barring  Wing- 
field  and  Waynefleet  themselves,  and  a  tail  of  nonenti- 
ties like  Percy  and  Hutton,  who  only  counted  because 
of  their  names,  and  not  at  all  because  of  brains.  In 
all  those  places  the  Socialists  had  come  in  with  fat 
majorities,  and  the  Constitutionalists  themselves  began 
to  grow  cold  at  the  thought  of  an  overwhelming  tide  of 
Socialism.  But  quickly  the  balance  swung  to  the  other 
side  when  the  Midlands  and  London  were  declared. 
London  was  Constitutional  to  a  man,  and  the  Socialists, 
who  had  been  shouting  victory  with  a  tomahawk  dance 
over  the  imaginary  mangled  remains  of  "Feudalism" 
and  "the  Old  Regime,"  sang  smaller  when  they  saw 
themselves  defeated  in  many  of  their  old  strongholds. 
Stretton  Wingfield  gathered  only  small  crumbs  of 
comfort  from  the  carelessness  of  both  parties.  It  was 
noticeable  that  the  only  successes  of  the  Individualists 
were  in  small  rural  boroughs  where  the  personality  of 
local  influence  of  the  candidate  counted  for  more  than 
political  creed.  The  net  result  was  twenty — and  Stret- 
ton had  believed  he  would  sweep  the  country  with  this 
new  middle  party  between  the  revolutionary  Socialists 
and  the  old  Tory-Liberal  forces! 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  255 

Waynefleet  dined  with  him  at  the  Savoy  when  the 
last  results  had  been  declared.  The  heavy  face  of 
the  man  seemed  calm  and  impassive  as  usual,  when  in 
repose,  and  the  anxiety  of  the  weeks  of  strife  had  not 
made  another  furrow  on  his  high  forehead.  Stretton, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  white,  haggard,  and  tremulous, 
with  tattered  nerves.  He  drank  more  than  Waynefleet, 
who  was  more  used  to  wine. 

"The  game  is  up,"  said  Stretton.  "We  have  made 
historical  fools  of  ourselves.  We  are  the  damned 
laughing-stock  of  the  nation." 

"With  twenty  seats,  my  young  friend,"  said  Wayne- 
fleet  calmly,  "we  can  do  something  in  the  House.  We 
are  not  to  be  ignored!  There  is  nothing  to  complain 
of,  except  lack  of  brain  in  the  rank  and  file.  You  are 
young,  my  dear  Wingfield,  and  therefore  impatient. 
When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am  you  will  realise  that  to 
educate  a  nation  to  a  new  political  idea  is  the  slowest 
work  a  man  may  attempt.  We  are  only  the  fore- 
runners." 

"We  are  utterly  discredited,"  said  Wingfield  irrita- 
bly. "I  see  now  that  Conservatives  are  the  only  In- 
dividualists. They  are  the  one  force  which  can  hope 
to  check  the  Socialists  at  this  time  of  day.  Individual- 
ism and  democracy  is  an  impossible  alliance. 

"My  friend,"  said  Waynefleet,  "you  think  so  because 
all  your  instincts  are  conservative,  and  your  democratic 
ideals  are  only  a  pose." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  have  been  playing  a 
traitor's  game?"  said  Stretton  fiercely. 


256  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"I  did  not  say  so.  But  frankly  I  am  the  only  demo- 
crat among  our  small  crowd.  You  are  all  tainted  by 
blue  blood  or  romantic  sentiment.  I,  sir,  am  the  son 
of  a  Derbyshire  butcher." 

"What  the  devil  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  said  Stret- 
ton, pouring  out  another  tumbler  of  wine  with  an  un- 
steady hand. 

"It  means  that  I  am  a  democrat  in  blood  and  bone, 
whereas  you  are  all  democrats  only  because  you  dislike 
Socialism  more  than  you  love  society.  The  distinction 
is  subtle,  I  own." 

"By  God!  Waynefleet,"  said  Stretton,  "I  believe 
you  are  playing  for  your  own  hand  all  through." 

"I  am  an  Individualist  and  a  democrat,"  said  Wayne- 
fleet.  "I  shall  live  by  my  faith." 

Well,  all  that  was  past  history  now,  and  Stretton 
walked  arm-in-arm  with  Waynefleet  through  the  Green 
Park,  to  take  his  seat  on  the  opening  of  Parliament. 
There  was  a  big  crowd  around  Buckingham  Palace 
waiting  for  the  King,  and  it  was  not  without  difficulty 
that  the  two  Individualists  made  their  way  through  the 
dense  masses  at  Westminster.  Here  they  were  recog- 
nised, and  there  were  an  ironical  cheer  and  some  hoarse 
laughter  as  some  fellow  shouted,  "Vive  Lafayette! 
Vive  Marat!" 

Waynefleet  smiled  grimly. 

"They  think  it  an  insult  to  call  me  Marat.  Well, 
he  was  the  one  man  who  had  sincerity.  L'Ami  du 
Peuple!  I  could  ask  for  no  better  name." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  257 

Wingfield  had  flushed  deeply  and  scowled  on  the 
people. 

'They  love  a  nickname.  But  why  they  should  call 
me  Lafayette  is  a  mystery.  I  have  nothing  in  common 
with  that  vain  noodle  who  gloried  in  constitutions  and 
top-boots." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  you  haven't,  my  friend." 
Waynefleet  glanced  at  Stretton's  careful  dress  and 
his  clouded  cane.  "He  was  a  sort  of  democratic  aris- 
tocrat like  yourself.  What's  wrong  with  the  name?" 

Wingfield  released  his  friend's  arm. 

"I  believe  you  despise  me  at  heart,"  he  said  coldly. 

"Humbug!"  said  Waynefleet  gruffly.  "That  is 
school-girl  talk." 

The  twenty  Individualists  were  to  sit  on  the  cross 
benches  between  the  two  great  parties.  Moorhouse, 
Hutton,  Percy,  Osgood,  Langdon,  Huddersfield, 
Wingate,  Fairhurst,  Mathews,  and  Osbaldistone  were 
already  in  their  places  looking  uncomfortably  self- 
conscious  and  rather  scared.  They  were  thin  benches 
on  the  Government  side,  but  the  Left  had  come  down 
early  to  the  House  and  kept  up  a  continual  clamour  of 
applause  or  groans  as  other  members  took  their  seats. 
The  Strangers'  Gallery  was  packed,  and  in  the  Ladies' 
Gallery,  which  several  sessions  before  had  been  en- 
larged and  relieved  of  its  grille,  Stretton  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Alicia  looking  down  with  a  white  face. 

As  Wingfield  entered  with  Waynefleet,  the  Constitu- 
tionalists broke  into  loud  laughter  and  jeers,  which 
brought  the  blood  to  Stretton's  face.  But  from  the 


258  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Left  came  a  deep  groan,  followed  by  prolonged  hissing, 
Waynefleet  turned  upon  them  with  a  calm  and  im- 
pressive stare,  putting  back  his  mane  with  a  heavy 
white  hand.  But  Wingfield  hurried  to  his  seat  and 
shook  hands  with  Hilary  Osgood  and  Moorhouse. 
From  the  Front  Bench  the  Right  Hon.  Lord  Hugh 
Unstead,  who  was  now  Colonial  Secretary,  Mr.  Words- 
worth having  changed  places  with  him,  crossed  over  to 
the  Middle  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Stretton,  an  action 
which  seemed  extremely  comical  to  the  Left,  who 
cheered  derisively. 

"Well,  my  dear  nephew!  This  is  an  historical  occa- 
sion. This  is  the  first  time  a  Wingfield  has  sat  on  the 
democratic  side." 

"It's  time  the  tradition  was  broken,"  said  Stretton 
lightly. 

"There's  something  in  that!  But  you  will  allow  us 
a  little  amusement?'  It  is  decidedly  entertaining  to  see 
so  many  younger  sons  of  the  old  stock  on  the  side  of 
the  mob.  Devilish  funny!  What  does  Percy's  mamma 
say,  I  wonder,  and  Teddy's  good  father?" 

He  leant  over  to  Moorhouse,  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"So  you  have  turned  politician  and  intellectual, 
Teddy?  You'll  find  it  a  poor  game  1 " 

"Oh,  it's  good  sport  so  far,  sir,"  said  Moorhouse. 

"Sport!"  said  Hugh  Unstead.  "Good  heavens! 
This  is  a  chamber  of  horrors.  Well,  good-bye,  boys. 
Be  good!"  He  smiled  at  them  in  his  quizzical  way 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  259 

and  strolled  back  to  greet  the  Prime  Minister,  whose 
arrival  was  heralded  by  a  burst  of  cheering. 

The  Debate  on  the  King's  speech  was  not  so  utterly 
dull  and  dreary  as  that  performance  usually  is.  The 
Socialists,  smarting  from  a  defeat  which  at  the  first 
had  seemed  like  victory,  were  in  a  fighting  mood  and 
had  many  amendments  on  the  paper,  and  as  all  the 
eloquence  was  on  their  side  they  made  a  really  formi- 
dable attack  on  the  Government  programme.  Their 
strongest  men,  Ricardo,  Vesey,  and  Fillimore,  waxed 
furious  over  the  domestic  policy  of  the  Constitutional- 
ists, which,  they  said,  had  been  more  reactionary  than 
in  the  days  of  the  old  Conservative  party. 

Fillimore  scored  an  epigram  in  the  tail  of  his  speech. 

"The  nation,"  he  said,  "like  a  sensitive  medium,  is 
hypnotised  by  staring  at  a  fixed  and  shining  point — 
the  Constitutional  head  of  the  Prime  Minister." 

All  eyes  were  turned  towards  Charlton,  whose  bald 
cranium  glimmered  brightly  above  the  Front  Bench, 
and  there  was  a  hearty  laugh  both  on  the  Right  and 
Left. 

"This  hypnotic  state  of  the  country,"  continued  Filli- 
more, "will  be  followed,  according  to  all  pathological 
law,  by  mental  excitability,  which  is  often  dangerous  to 
the  hypnotist." 

Ricardo  made  a  hammer-and-anvil  speech  in  which 
there  were  none  of  Fillimore's  flippancies,  but  a  sincer- 
ity that  was  not  unimpressive. 

"The  Socialists,"  he  said,  "have  been  retarded  by  a 


260  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

temporary  barrier  of  caste  influences  thrust  across  their 
way.  But  Socialism  has  moved  the  spirit  of  the  people. 
It  is  a  great  tide  which  may  be  momentarily  checked 
by  a  reef  or  a  breakwater,  but  which  no  barrier  may 
ultimately  resist.  It  will  sweep  onward  with  a  silent 
and  irresistible  force.  It  will  dash  to  pieces  any  futile 
obstruction,  and  with  the  mighty  impulse  of  a  great 
spirit  will  break  upon  the  shifting  sands  of  folly  and 
prejudice,  and  class  bigotry,  drowning  them  beneath 
deep  waters." 

Vesey  in  a  less  oratorical  manner  was  more  effective. 
With  a  brilliant  handling  of  figures  he  set  out  to  prove 
that  the  Government  had  wasted  ten  millions  of  money 
on  the  native  rebellion  on  the  Gold  Coast  which,  he 
said,  had  been  fostered  to  serve  the  private  ends  of  a 
Chartered  Company;  that  they  had  sunk  five  millions 
in  bolstering  up  a  scheme  of  pauper-relief  which  was 
simply  an  attempt  to  destroy  the  social  labour  colonies; 
that  they  had  thrown  away  two  millions  upon  the  build- 
ing of  prisons  at  Dover  and  Canterbury  which  were 
chiefly  occupied  by  political  criminals  who  were  the 
children  of  their  own  reactionary  policy.  He  was  inter- 
rupted several  times  from  the  Front  Bench  and  once 
by  the  Prime  Minister,  who  abruptly  challenged  a 
statement  regarding  the  number  of  criminals  con- 
demned for  political  crimes. 

"My  figures,"  said  Vesey,  "include  a  number  of  pris- 
oners who  have  not  yet  been  condemned  by  law,  but 
who  have  been  on  remand  for  more  than  three  months. 
It  is  a  system  of  terrorising  which  has  only  had  its 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  261 

counterpart  in  the  French  Revolution  and  in  modern 
Russia.  It  is  the  blackest  stain  upon  English  history, 
but  not  so  black  as  the  letters  in  which  the  right 
honourable  gentleman's  name  will  be  written  in  the 
future  annals  of  this  country." 

The  Prime  Minister  at  once  appealed  to  the  Speaker, 
and  the  whole  of  the  Right  rose  with  shouts  of  "With- 
draw!" The  Speaker  gave  his  ruling  that  the  Hon. 
Member  for  Bermondsey  East  had  used  an  unparlia- 
mentary expression  reflecting  on  the  private  character 
of  the  Prime  Minister,  and  amidst  an  uproar  Herbert 
Vesey  withdrew  the  offending  words. 

It  was  at  ten  o'clock  that  Stretton  Wingfield  rose 
to  move  an  amendment: — 

That  His  Majesty's  Government  do  take  meas- 
ures to  prevent  the  municipalisation  of  building, 
provision,  and  sundry  trades,  which  is  destructive 
oj  individual  enterprise  and  of  national  economy 
and  efficiency. 

From  each  side  of  the  House  there  came  jeers  and 
derisive  laughter,  and  from  the  Left  the  shout  of 
"Lafayette!  Lafayette!"  showed  that  the  nicknames 
in  the  halfpenny  Press  had  been  adopted  by  the  House. 

Stretton  stood  before  the  tumult  silently.  He  seemed 
a  tall  slim  figure  in  his  well-cut  frock-coat,  the  lapels  of 
which  he  held  tightly.  His  head  was  thrown  back  a 
little,  with  an  air  of  challenge,  and  his  lips  were  firmly 
set.  Yet,  as  a  new-comer  in  the  House,  he  was  nervous 


262  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

of  this  sudden  demonstration.  The  groans  that  came 
from  the  Left  did  not  scare  him,  but  he  was  troubled 
by  the  laughter  on  the  Right.  Ridicule  hurt  him  more 
than  passion.  Among  the  crowd  of  faces  before  him  he 
saw  his  uncle  leaning  forward  with  that  quizzing,  ironi- 
cal smile  which  was  always  disconcerting.  For  a  few 
moments  his  mind  was  a  blank.  He  could  not  remem- 
l?er  a  word  of  the  speech  which  he  had  rehearsed  during 
a  week  of  anxious  preparation.  To  save  his  life  he 
could  not  have  spoken  a  sentence  of  it.  Good  God! 
was  he  going  to  make  a  fool  of  himself?  He  was  thank- 
ful for  the  continued  noise,  which  gave  him  time  to  mas- 
ter himself.  He  could  not  distinguish  a  word  of  the 
shouts  from  the  Right  and  Left,  but  the  Speaker's 
deeply  intoned  "Order!  Order!"  was  like  the  clanging 
of  a  bell  in  his  brain.  Something  impelled  him  to  turn 
his  head  and  look  upwards.  He  saw  Alicia's  face  again, 
and  her  burning  eyes  were  upon  him.  She  seemed  to 
look  upon  him  from  a  vague  mist,  and  her  face  was 
shadowy  and  undefined,  but  it  seemed  that  she  smiled 
across  the  House  to  him.  He  thought  he  saw  her  lips 
move  and  say  something.  She  was  sending  a  message 
of  confidence. 

Gradually  the  groans  and  the  shrill  laughter  ceased, 
and  Stretton  found  himself  alone  in  a  great  silence. 
Waynefleet's  hand  touched  his  sleeve,  and  Moorhouse 
gave  a  dry  little  cough. 

Then  Stretton  found  himself  speaking,  and  he  was 
surprised  to  hear  the  sound  of  his  own  voice.  But 
his  brain  cleared  and  he  remembered  his  words. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  263 

It  was  an  actor's  speech,  impassioned  and  elocutional 
with  well-marked  pauses,  and  phrases  that  had  been 
thought  out  and  learnt  by  heart.  He  quoted  a  passage 
from  Emerson,  and  a  line  from  Tennyson.  His  voice 
thrilled,  and  loosing  his  hands  from  his  coat  lapels, 
he  flung  them  out  with  a  dramatic  gesture.  His  perora- 
tion was  spoken  quickly  and  in  a  resonant  tone,  and 
he  was  heedless  of  the  interruptions  that  came  from 
both  sides  of  the  House. 

"The  Individual,"  he  said,  "has  been  crushed  under 
the  wheels  of  this  blind  machine  of  Socialism.  [Jeers 
from  the  Left.]  The  liberty  of  the  soul  has  been  stifled 
by  the  tyranny  of  State  control.  Private  enterprise  has 
been  deadened  by  the  overwhelming  competition  of 
State  trust  under  the  name  of  Municipal  Government. 
England  owed  its  former  greatness  to  individualism. 
[Laughter.]  The  citizen  was  spurred  on  to  great 
achievements  by  the  knowledge  that  upon  his  own 
strength  of  character  and  his  own  powers  of  intellect 
depended  his  very  life.  Now  he  has  no  need  of  initia- 
tive and  no  opportunity  for  progress.  He  has  been 
sentenced  to  the  treadmill  of  the  State  prison.  [A 
Voice:  "Claptrap."]  In  return  for  his  unintelligent  la- 
bour he  is  housed  and  fed  and  educated  and  amused. 
His  very  pleasures  are  regulated  by  his  municipality. 
Municipal  theatres,  municipal  baths,  municipal  music, 
municipal  recreation  rooms,  municipal  libraries  sur- 
round him  with  a  deadening  influence.  [Laughter.]  If 
he  is  foolish  enough  to  work  beyond  the  minimum  re- 
quired of  him,  the  profits  of  his  labour  go  to  pay  for  the 


264:  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

pleasures  of  those  who  do  not  work,  and  for  public  ad- 
vantages which  he  does  not  perhaps  wish  to  share.     [A 
Voice:  "Why  not?"]    The  home  life  of  the  people  has 
been  pervaded  by  a  moral  decadence.    Municipal  nurs- 
eries have  destroyed  the  spirit  of  motherhood.    Munic- 
ipal meals  have  destroyed  the  responsibility  of  parents. 
Municipal  inspection  has  destroyed  the  privacy  and 
the  self-respect  of  family  life.    The  small  trader  has 
been  crushed  out  by  municipal  trading,  and  instead  of 
the  struggle  for  existence  which  is  the  divine  law  of 
life  [cries  of  "Oh! "],  instead  of  the  noble  individualism 
by  which  the  hard  worker  and  the  man  of  intellect 
gained  the  best  rewards,  there  is  now  a  soft  bed  for  the 
lazy  and  the  inefficient,  who  have  equal  opportunities 
and  equal  rewards  with  those  who  are  their  masters  by 
nature  and  justice.    The  advancing  tide  of  Socialism 
has  swept  over  the  nation   [cheers  from  the  Left], 
smoothing  down  individuals  to  a  dead  level  of  inertia 
and  inefficiency,  and  the  private  liberty  of  the  soul  has 
been  drowned  in  a  sea  of  State  authority.    The  Con- 
stitutional party  has  opposed  Socialism  only  in  the  in- 
terests of  caste  and  in  the  defence  of  the   Crown. 
[Jeers  from  the  Right.]    They  have  so  far  secured  the 
prerogatives  of  wealth  and  rank,  and  the  fabric  of  the 
old  regime.     But  the  fabric  is  undermined,  and  the 
Crown  itself  is  threatened  by  this  destroying  Socialism. 
[Cries  of  "Order!"  and  "Withdraw!"]   They  have  not 
given  a  thought  to  the  well-being  of  the  people  or  to  the 
true  progress  and  liberty  of  a  noble  democracy.    The 
people,  therefore,  have  been  seduced  into  Socialism  be- 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  265 

cause  of  the  indifference  and  the  reactionary  policy  of 
the  wealthy  classes.  [Cheers  from  the  Left.]  It  is 
only  in  a  new  party,  imbued  with  the  true  spirit  of 
democracy,  prepared  to  oppose  the  doctrine  of  Social- 
ism to  the  death,  and  to  defend  the  liberty  of  the  in- 
dividual, that  the  nation  may  be  rescued  from  this 
dreadful  decadence.  [Laughter  from  both  sides  of  the 
House.]  It  is  to  the  Individualists,  or  the  Independent 
Democrats  as  we  prefer  to  be  called,  that  the  people  of 
England  must  look  for  a  renaissance  of  liberty  and 
national  life."  [Laughter.] 

Stretton  sat  down  with  an  instinctive  feeling  that  he 
had  made  himself  ridiculous.  The  derisive  laughter 
of  the  House  whipped  his  ears,  and  his  nerves  were  so 
highly  strung  that  he  put  a  trembling  hand  on  Wayne- 
fleet's  knee  and  gripped  it  hard  to  steady  himself. 
Waynefleet  bent  his  head  towards  him  and  whispered. 

"It  was  all  right,"  he  said.  "A  bit  too  oratorical, 
but  you  got  home." 

Then  Waynefleet  rose,  a  giant  of  a  man  with  the 
shoulders  of  a  coalheaver  and  a  lion's  head.  His  mas- 
sive face,  pock-marked  and  with  heavy  jowl,  was  as 
impassive  as  a  mask,  and  there  was  a  rugged  grandeur 
in  his  look  which  silenced  the  noisy  members  of  the 
Left  and  Right.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  spirit  of 
the  House  that  they  were  willing  to  listen  to  a  man 
who  had  been  identified  for  years  with  the  philosophy 
of  Individualism,  and  whom  both  the  Constitutionalists 
and  Socialists  recognised  as  a  strong  opponent,  though 


266  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

they  had  treated  with  derision  the  speech  of  a  younger 
man  who  had  no  reputation  of  his  own. 

Waynefleet  indulged  in  no  oratory,  though  in  private 
life  he  was  always  an  orator.  He  knew  that  the  rhetoric 
which  stirs  enthusiasm  at  a  public  meeting  is  out  of 
place  in  an  assembly  which  is  impatient  of  all  but  hard 
facts  and  plain  common  sense,  which  enjoys  irony  and 
hard  hitting,  but  will  not  tolerate  fanaticism  or  ideal- 
ism. It  was  a  hard  measured  speech,  in  which  every 
sentence  was  a  statement  of  fact.  Occasionally  a  keen 
flash  of  humour  shot  like  forked  lightning  upon  the 
Left  or  the  Right,  bringing  an  angry  murmur  from 
them.  Once  a  strong  and  brutal  phrase  stung  the 
Socialists  into  fierce  cries  of  "Withdraw!"  But  with  a 
grave  dignity  Waynefleet  substituted  a  set  of  words 
which  were  more  parliamentary  in  expression  but  more 
deadly  in  their  hidden  meaning.  The  Constitutionalists 
cheered  him,  with  laughter  at  the  discomfiture  of  the 
Opposition.  But  he  turned  upon  them  with  his  heavy 
face,  and  silenced  them  by  an  attack,  so  bold  and  men- 
acing in  its  satire  that  the  Socialists  broke  into  counter 
cheers  at  the  broadside  among  their  enemies. 

When  Waynefleet  sat  down  there  were  murmurs  of 
applause  from  both  sides  of  the  House.  Though  he 
had  not  spared  them,  they  admired  a  good  fighting 
man,  and  old  parliamentary  hands  whispered  to  one 
another  that  the  House  had  heard  the  best  speech  since 
ParnelFs  great  challenge  to  the  Tory  Government. 

At  the  Division  Stretton's  amendment  was  lost  by 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  267 

425  votes  to  22,  and  as  the  numbers  were  declared 
another  wave  of  laughter  swept  through  the  House. 

Stretton  Wingfield  left  Waynefleet  in  the  smoking- 
room  and  accepted  Lord  Hugh's  invitation  for  a  walk 
along  the  Embankment.  Alicia  had  left  the  House 
immediately  after  his  speech,  sending  through  a  note 
to  tell  him  that  she  would  wait  supper  for  him  at  home. 
"Your  speech  was  worthy  of  you,"  she  scribbled,  "but 
I  could  not  bear,  nor  understand,  the  cruel  laughter. 
Never  mind!  They  will  not  laugh  when  they  have 
learnt  to  fear  you."  Stretton  had  crushed  the  note  in 
his  hand  and  thrust  it  into  his  pocket.  He  was  so  con- 
scious of  failure  that  even  Alicia's  sympathy  stung 
him  to  a  keener  sense  of  irritation.  His  uncle  gossiped 
cheerfully  about  the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  stopped 
to  look  upon  the  river  flooded  with  silver. 

"Wonderful,  isn't  it?  And  yet  some  asses  talk  about 
the  ugliness  of  London.  Why,  Venice  is  not  so  fine 
as  this!" 

Stretton  did  not  answer  him. 

"How  did  my  speech  go  down?"  he  said  abruptly. 
"Did  I  make  an  absolute  fool  of  myself?" 

Unstead  laughed  carelessly. 

"A  pretty  considerable  one,  I  think!" 

Then,  more  seriously,  he  gripped  his  nephew's  arm. 

"My  dear  Stretton,  why  the  devil  didn't  you  take 
my  advice?  This  individualism  is  a  poor  sort  of  busi- 
ness. I  rather  admire  that  scoundrel  Waynefleet. 
He  made  a  first-rate  attack.  But  you  are  in  the  wrong 


268  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

box  altogether.  You  belong  to  our  side,  body  and 
soul,  and  yet  you  voluntarily  adopt  a  pose  which  is 
perfectly  transparent.  Believe  me,  in  the  House  noth- 
ing succeeds  like  sincerity." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  there  is  any  sincerity  at  St. 
Stephen's?"  said  Stretton  with  a  scornful  laugh.  "My 
dear  uncle,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  every  one 
is  posing  all  the  time.  It  is  a  Parliament  of  poseurs." 

"To  a  certain  extent,  yes.  But  most  of  us  pose  on 
the  right  pedestals.  You  are  on  the  wrong  one — and 
you  are  sharing  it  with  another  man.  There  is  no  room 
for  you  and  Waynefleet  on  the  same  stone.  He  has 
pushed  you  off  already." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Stretton  sharply. 

"My  dear  fellow.  He  monopolises  the  situation.  He 
is  the  only  Individualist.  The  rest  of  you  are  hangers- 
on." 

"Damn  him!"  said  Stretton  fiercely.  "He  hasn't 
played  straight  from  the  very  first." 

Unstead  laughed  in  his  light  quizzical  way. 

"Of  course  you  will  quarrel  before  a  week  is  out. 
You  can't  help  being  a  Wingfield,  though  you  do  for- 
sake the  family  tradition." 

He  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"By  the  by,  who  is  that  woman  you  have  taken  up? 
I  like  her  face,  but  don't  you  think  you're  rather 
foolish?" 

"It  is  my  private  affair,"  said  Stretton  coldly. 

"Quite  so.  I  have  no  wish  to  poke  my  nose  into  it. 
But  as  your  uncle  and  a  man  of  the  world  I  advise  you 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  269 

to  be  a  little  careful.  One  of  these  days  you  will  want 
to  marry.  There's  Betty  Huddlestone  waiting  for  a 
husband,  and  she  was  always  fond  of  you  I  believe. 
Take  my  tip,  dear  Stretton,  and  settle  down  into  a 
comfortable  family.  Poverty  and  romantic  love  are 
all  right  when  one's  young.  I  enjoyed  them  myself  and 
do  not  regret  it.  But  one  must  look  ahead,  you  know." 

The  nephew  and  uncle  parted  at  the  comer  of  St. 
James's  Square. 

"We  never  hit  it  off  very  well,"  said  Unstead,  smil- 
ing, not  unkindly,  "but  blood  is  thicker  than  water. 
Chuck  Individualism,  my  dear  Stretton,  and  come 
over  to  our  side.  In  a  few  years  I  will  find  you  a  place, 
and  if  you  leave  fair  women  alone  and  marry  a  nice 
plain  girl  with  a  family  influence  you'll  go  far  yet." 

At  home  Alicia  was  waiting  for  Stretton  and  as  he 
came  in  with  a  hard,  white  face  she  put  her  arms  about 
him. 

"My  love  I"  she  said,  "my  love!    How  proud  I  am!" 

Stretton  kissed  her,  but  his  lips  were  cold. 

"My  dear  girl,  there's  nothing  to  be  proud  of.  I've 
failed  miserably.  I  shall  never  recover  the  effect  of 
that  fatal  speech." 

He  sat  down  moodily,  and  pushing  aside  the  tea  that 
Alicia  poured  out  for  him  took  a  strong  dose  of  whisky. 

Alicia  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  him  clasping  his 
arm. 

"You  are  disheartened,  dear  one !  It  is  the  reaction 
after  your  long  excitement.  But  you  must  not  lose 
heart  so  soon!  I  was  spellbound  by  your  speech,  and 


270  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

although  your  enemies  jeered,  that  was  only  natural. 
The  more  effective  you  are  in  debate  the  more  they 
will  hate  you  and  try  to  discourage  you.  But  you  are 
speaking  to  a  large  public.  Your  words  will  be  read  to- 
morrow by  the  world.  It  is  the  great  public  that  you 
must  educate  and  convince.  I  believe  public  opinion 
is  always  on  the  right  side  in  the  long  run." 

Stretton  laughed  irritably. 

"How  can  you  think  or  believe  anything  in  such 
cases?  You  know  nothing  about  politics." 

His  words  stabbed  Alicia  as  though  each  one  were  a 
knife.  They  were  the  first  unkind  thing  he  had  spoken 
to  her,  and  she  could  not  check  the  tears  that  suddenly 
filled  her  eyes. 

She  became  silent,  and  Stretton,  unobservant  of  her 
pain,  drank  his  whisky,  staring  moodily  into  the  fire. 
Presently  he  pushed  the  empty  glass  away  from  him 
and  got  up. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  bed  to-night?  Good  heavens, 
how  white  you  are!" 

"Yes,  perhaps  I  had  better  go  to  bed,"  said  Alicia. 
"Are  you  sitting  up  later?" 

"Yes;  I  must  write  some  letters." 

He  turned  at  once  to  his  desk  and  lit  an  electric 
lamp. 

Alicia  stood  at  the  door,  looking  at  him  with  strange 
wistful  eyes. 

"Good-night,  Stretton,"  she  said. 

"Good-night." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  271 

His  pen  was  already  moving  swiftly  over  a  sheet 
of  notepaper,  and  he  did  not  turn  his  head. 

Alicia  went  out  and  closed  the  door  after  her  quietly. 
But  before  going  into  her  bedroom  she  stayed  for  a 
moment  on  the  dim  landing,  with  tears  falling  upon 
her  clasped  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

ALICIA,  who  had  not  had  time  to  think  during  the 
month  of  her  London  life,  when  Stretton  had  been 
with  her  all  the  days  and  when  his  friends  had  made  his 
house  a  rendezvous,  now  had  too  much  time  to  think, 
and  it  was  not  good  for  her.  Stretton  went  down  regu- 
larly to  the  House  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  and 
did  not  return,  as  a  rule  until  midnight.  Then  in  the 
morning  he  lay  late  in  bed,  reading  newspapers  or  mak- 
ing notes,  and  often  he  would  lunch  away  from  home 
with  political  friends  as  he  explained,  to  whom  the 
lunch  hour  was  a  time  of  preliminary  debate  upon  sub- 
jects occupying  the  attention  of  the  House. 

To  Alicia  it  was  a  puzzle  sometimes  why  all  his  time 
should  be  absorbed  by  parliamentary  duties,  especially 
as  he  rarely  spoke  in  the  House.  That  again  was  a 
source  of  anxiety  to  her.  Like  many  people  who  do 
not  understand  the  working  of  the  parliamentary 
machine  with  all  the  wheels  that  revolve  silently  behind 
the  scenes,  she  had  imagined  that  a  member  must  be 
always  on  his  feet  making  speeches  or  taking  part  in 
full-dress  debates.  Yet  days  passed  without  Stretton 
opening  his  mouth,  and  when  on  rare  occasions  some 
expression  of  Individualistic  opinions  was  made  in  the 
House  the  speaker  was  generally  not  Stretton  but  Cuth- 

272 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  273 

bert  Waynefleet,  who  thrust  in  an  ironical  remark,  or 
a  brief  statement  of  fact,  that  caught  the  attention  of 
the  newspapers. 

Once  or  twice  Alicia  asked  the  reason  of  Stretton's 
silence,  or  hinted  that  he  should  speak  more  frequently. 
But  he  laughed  at  her  ignorance,  or  replied  with  a  cer- 
tain irritation  of  manner  that  always  hurt  her  sensitive 
nature. 

"One  can't  be  for  ever  talking  nonsense." 

Alicia  laughed  quietly. 

"I  want  you  to  talk  sense,  Stretton!" 

"My  dear  girl,  the  work  of  an  M.P.  is  done  mostly 
in  the  Committee-room,  registering  his  vote  in  the 
right  lobby,  and  in  hammering  things  out  in  the 
smoking-room.  Surely  you  know  that." 

"No,  dear,  I'm  sorry  I  didn't." 

"You  will  always  be  a  country  mouse,"  said  Stretton, 
laughing  more  amiably. 

So  Alicia  had  too  much  time  to  think.  She  sat  often 
for  an  hour  or  more  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  staring 
into  the  fire  in  Stretton's  study.  She  brooded  over 
hasty  words,  or  cold  words,  that  Stretton  had  spoken 
to  her.  He  was  very  over-wrought  just  now,  she  could 
see.  His  nerves  had  gone  wrong.  So  he  said  several 
times  with  a  sudden  apology  when  he  had  been  abrupt 
to  her.  Even  when  he  said  nothing,  she  could  see  that 
sometimes  he  was  putting  a  restraint  upon  himself  in 
trying  to  master  a  sense  of  irritation.  If  she  came  to 
him  when  he  was  writing  and  put  her  arms  about  him, 


274  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

or  laid  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  he  would  smile,  but 
not  with  his  old  tenderness,  and  an  unconscious  move- 
ment of  his  head,  or  a  stiffness  in  his  attitude,  showed 
her  too  clearly,  and  too  sadly,  that  he  would  be  relieved 
if  she  left  him  alone.  Perhaps  she  was  too  sensitive. 
She  reproached  herself  bitterly  for  not  being  more 
patient  and  cheerful,  for  taking  too  much  to  heart  these 
little  signs  of  nervous  irritability  which  were  surely 
caused  by  overwork,  and  not  by  any  loss  of  love.  She 
was  sure  he  loved  her  still.  How  could  she  doubt  it? 
He  was  not  always  cold  and  absent  in  his  manner. 
Sometimes  coming  home  late  at  night  he  would  be  ex- 
cited by  his  old  passion,  and  would  take  her  close  to 
him,  and  kiss  her  lips  and  hair,  and  call  her  "Lady  of 
the  Mist,"  and  old  love-names  that  would  make  her 
forget  a  long  day  of  weariness  and  faint  heart  and 
miserable  loneliness. 

One  night,  when  he  came  back  from  St.  Stephen's, 
Alicia  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  armchair  by  the  fire. 
Her  face,  half  pillowed  by  the  soft  cushion,  was  flushed 
by  the  heat,  but  there  were  undried  tears  upon  her 
cheek,  and  as  she  slept  she  breathed  with  quivering 
sighs  as  if  she  dreamed  sadly.  Stretton,  who  had  come 
in  quietly,  stood  looking  at  her,  and  the  hardness 
melted  from  his  face,  and  a  sudden  wave  of  tender- 
ness swept  over  him.  He  knelt  down  and  took  her 
hand,  kissing  it,  so  that  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"My  darling!"  he  said,  "what  a  brute  I  am  to  you. 
How  beastly  selfish  I  am!" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  275 

She  smiled  at  him  with  exquisite  gratitude,  and 
pulled  his  head  down  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  my  love!"  she  cried.  "How  good  you  are 
tome!" 

They  talked  late  into  the  night  as  they  had  done  in 
the  school-house  at  Long  Stretton,  and  Alicia  confessed 
her  great  loneliness  and  her  unfulfilled  desires. 

"I  must  have  something  to  do — some  work,  Stret- 
ton," she  said.  "If  you  are  to  be  away  from  me  so 
much  I  must  have  something  to  occupy  my  mind.  You 
have  no  idea  what  it  is  like — the  long,  long  hours,  the 
interminable  day,  the  dreadful  loneliness  of  the  evening, 
waiting  for  you  while  the  clock  goes  round." 

"But  my  dear  girl,  surely  there  is  plenty  to  occupy 
your  mind — London,  the  picture  galleries,  the  British 
Museum,  all  the  books  there.  You  should  take  up 
some  course  of  study." 

"I  can't,"  said  Alicia;  "that  is  not  what  I  meant. 
I  try  to  read  books,  but  my  eyes  only  read  the  pages 
and  my  thoughts  are  far  away.  Sometimes  I  have 
read  whole  chapters  without  realising  a  bit  what  the 
subject  of  them  is.  I  want  some  definite  useful  work, 
mere  drudgery  that  must  be  done  with  accuracy.  Can't 
I  help  you,  Stretton?  Can't  I  be  your  secretary?" 

"Oh,  I  get  all  I  want  in  the  House  of  Commons 
Library,  or  the  morning  papers." 

Alicia  bent  down  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  don't  tell  me  things,  Stretton.  You  don't 
give  me  your  confidence.  You  come  home  after  being 


276  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

away  a  whole  day,  and  you  don't  tell  me  what  you 
have  been  doing,  or  what  has  been  going  on,  or  what 
people  you  have  been  talking  to.  There  is  a  great  gulf 
between  us,  and  I  cannot  see  what  is  on  the  other  side." 

Stretton  was  silent,  and  the  firelight  flickered  on  a 
brooding  face. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  you,"  he  said.  "Every  day 
it  is  the  same,  deadly  dull  committee  work,  or  land 
taxation,  or  workhouse  inspection,  or  prison  reform,  or 
death-rates,  deadly  dull  conversations  with  stupid 
people  of  all  sorts,  smoking-room  gossip,  lobby-running, 
visits  from  constituents,  party  manoeuvres,  personal 
quarrels  and  bickerings,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  trivial 
things  that  go  to  make  a  parliamentary  career." 

"But  those  are  just  the  things  I  want  to  know,  all 
that  is  deeply  interesting  to  me,"  said  Alicia. 

"Oh,  my  dear  girl,  how  can  you  expect  me  to  go 
over  all  that  dreary  business  when  I  come  home  to  get 
away  from  it  and  forget  it?" 

Alicia  pondered  rather  sadly. 

"At  least  you  might  tell  me  something  about  your 
own  work,  your  ambitions,  and  the  prospects  of  the 
Individualists." 

Stretton  laughed,  with  a  note  of  bitterness. 

"A  new  member  soon  loses  his  ambitions.  He 
goes  into  the  House  with  the  hope  of  a  Cabinet  place 
before  him,  but  in  a  little  while  he  finds  himself  a  mere 
spoke  of  an  insignificant  wheel  in  a  great  and  com- 
plicated machine.  If  he  hasn't  unusual  influence  or 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  277 

extraordinary  luck,  he  has  no  chance  whatever  of 
advancement  without  years  of  steady  drudgery.  On 
the  other  side,  of  course,  I  should  have  had  influence, 
but  I  burnt  my  boats,  except  the  cockle-shell  in  which 
I  float  upon  the  political  sea." 

Alicia  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"What  has  happened  to  Cuthbert  Waynefleet  and 
the  others?  They  have  not  been  here  for  some  weeks 
since,  except  Hilary." 

"Oh,  nothing  has  happened  to  them,"  said  Stretton 
carelessly.  "But  they  begin  to  bore  me." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  quarrelled  with 
them?"  said  Alicia  anxiously. 

"Oh,  they  are  not  worth  quarrelling  with.  Whenever 
any  one  of  them  opens  his  mouth,  which  is  seldom, 
thank  goodness,  the  House  laughs  into  his  throat.  The 
Individualists  are  not  a  success." 

He  smiled  at  Alicia's  serious  face,  but  with  a  hard 
mouth  and  no  mirth  in  his  eyes. 

Alicia  was  moved  intensely.  When  the  world  had 
been  laughing  at  the  campaign  of  the  Independent 
Democrats,  she  had  taken  it  quite — quite  seriously. 
She  had  believed  beyond  all  in  Stretton,  in  his  audacity, 
his  courage,  his  eloquence,  his  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  his  confidence  of  success.  And  now  within  a 
few  weeks  of  the  new  Parliament  he  seemed  to  have 
abandoned  hope. 

Oh,  this  was  weakness!  She  tried  to  rally  him  by 
cheering  words,  she  appealed  to  his  fighting  instincts, 


278  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

to  his  blood.  She  stung  him  sharply  by  recalling  brave 
words  in  which  he  had  sworn  never  to  be  beaten.  But 
he  listened  moodily,  and  then,  impatiently,  unwreathed 
her  arms  from  his  neck. 

"I  was  a  fool  when  I  said  those  things.    Let  us  go 
to  bed.    It's  deuced  late." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

HILARY  OSGOOD  asked  Stretton  for  permission  to 
paint  Alicia's  portrait. 

"I  have  waited  half  a  lifetime  for  a  face  like  hers," 
he  said,  "and  I  believe  I  could  do  something  like  justice 
to  it.  It  inspires  me.  I  can  feel  genius  itching  at  my 
finger-tips." 

"You  are  a  dashed  impudent  young  monkey,"  said 
Stretton.  "I  am  not  going  to  let  Alicia  be  the  model 
of  any  canvas  messer." 

"My  friend,"  said  Hilary,  with  a  gesture  of  tragedy, 
"if  you  refuse  you  rob  the  world  of  a  masterpiece." 

"Masterpiece  be  hanged!"  said  Stretton. 

Hilary  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"You  consent!  "he  said.  "Praise  be  to  Allah!  The 
masterpiece  shall  be  hanged  on  the  walls  of  next  year's 
Academy." 

Stretton  smiled  grimly. 

(I  shall  see  you  hanged  first,  in  a  hempen  noose." 

The  idea,  however,  was  not  so  displeasing  to  him 
as  he  made  out  that  Alicia  was  very  lonely.  She  was 
becoming  nervous  and  highly  strung,  pleading  always 
for  work  to  occupy  her  mind.  Well,  the  portrait  would 
give  her  some  interest  in  life,  and  Hilary  would  amuse 
her.  Besides  ...  he  pondered  deeply  with  frowning 

279 


280  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

brow,  and  when  Alicia  came  into  the  room  he  looked  at 
her  searchingly,  and  gave  a  quick  sigh. 

"Hilary  wants  to  paint  your  portrait.  Do  you  ob- 
ject?" 

Alicia  flushed  a  little  and  smiled. 

"My  portrait?  'A  Study  of  a  Plain  Woman,  No. 
235,  by  Hilary  Osgood.'  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  it  exactly,"  said  Hilary,  gazing  at  her 
with  a  look  that  showed  the  irony  of  his  acquiescence. 

"It's  not  a  bad  idea  .  .  .  though  he  is  a  shocking  bad 
artist,"  said  Stretton.  "What  do  you  say,  Alicia?" 

"Would  you  like  me  to  sit  for  it?"  said  Alicia.  She 
remembered  that  twinge  of  jealousy  to  which  Stretton 
had  confessed  regarding  Hilary. 

Stretton  strolled  to  the  window  before  he  answered. 

"I  have  no  objection,"  he  said. 

"Blessings  to  you  both,"  said  Hilary.  "I  see  myself 
famous.  I  see  great  crowds  gazing  at  a  spiritual  face 
with  the  soul's  beauty  in  the  eyes.  I  see  myself  listen- 
ing to  whispers  of  homage,  though  those  around  know 
not  that  the  artist  is  among  them.  ...  I  spare  you 
the  rest  of  this  wondrous  vision." 

"Thanks,"  said  Stretton. 

"Not  at  all.     To-morrow,  then,  at  ten  o'clock?" 

"Isn't  that  too  early?"  said  Alicia. 

"Too  early!  Think  of  the  brief  hours  of  light.  Ars 
longa,  lux  brevis  est!  Art  is  long,  light  is  short." 

When  Hilary  had  gone  Stretton  had  lunch  with 
Alicia,  and  at  the  end  of  it  hesitated  a  little  as  he  said — 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  281 

"By  the  by,  I  think  of  going  out  of  town  for  the 
week-end.  Do  you  mind  very  much?" 

Alicia's  face  fell.  She  had  been  looking  forward  so 
eagerly  to  this  week-end,  when  Stretton  would  be  with 
her  again  for  two  whole  days. 

"I  do  mind  very  much,"  she  said,  smiling  a  little 
wistfully.  "But  that  is  my  selfishness.  Where  are  you 
going?" 

Stretton  coloured  slightly. 

"Well,  the  fact  is  my  uncle  has  asked  me  down  to 
Unstead  Park.  I  haven't  been  there  for  years,  and  I 
feel  I  ought  not  to  lose  this  opportunity  of  patching 
up  a  family  quarrel.  Don't  you  agree?" 

"Yes,"  said  Alicia,  though  rather  doubtfully. 

"You  don't  agree,"  said  Stretton.    "Why?" 

"I  think  you  are  right — quite  right.  But  somehow 
or  other  I  rather  distrust  your  uncle.  I  only  saw  his 
face  that  day  in  the  carriage  and  heard  him  speak  a 
few  words,  but  they  made  me  afraid  of  him  instinct- 
ively." 

"Instinct,"  said  Stretton,  "is  another  name  for  blind 
prejudice.  It's  a  stupid  thing." 

"Yes  .  . .  when  do  you  start,  dear  heart?" 

Stretton  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"I  must  be  off  in  another  half-hour.  I  got  James  to 
pack  my  bag." 

Alicia  got  up  from  the  table,  going  rather  white. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  before?  Surely  I  could 
have  packed  your  bag!  Oh  ...  but  you  tell  me  noth- 
ing! You  keep  everything  back  from  me!" 


282  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

Her  emotion  touched  Stretton's  nerves,  and  he 
flushed  angrily. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  don't  be  hysterical." 

She  held  on  to  a  high  oak  chair. 

"Haven't  I  a  right  to  be  hysterical?  You  do  not 
trust  me.  For  weeks  you  have  been  cold  and  silent. 
You  keep  your  life  in  the  world  dark  from  me.  You 
.  .  .  you  treat  me  as  your  mistress,  and  nothing  else!" 

It  was  Stretton  now  who  became  white. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked.  "I  have  brought 
you  to  this  house  and  have  played  a  straight  game  with 
you  so  far.  You  have  every  comfort;  I  deny  you 
nothing." 

"You  deny  me  your  trust  and  confidence." 

Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  broke  into  sobs. 

Stretton  went  to  the  window  and  stared  out  with  hK 
hands  in  his  pockets.  Then  suddenly  he  turned  and 
went  to  her. 

"Alicia,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "do  not  let  us  part 
angrily.  Forgive  me." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  she  let  him  kiss  her. 
Then  she  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  clasped 
him  passionately. 

"Oh,  Stretton!     I  love  you,  I  love  you!" 

"I  know,"  he  said  gently.  "My  dear  girl,  you  have 
been  very  good  to  me!" 

He  soothed  her,  and  then,  when  she  wept  no  longer, 
he  asked  her  to  fetch  his  writing-case. 

"I  am  tremendously  sorry,"  he  said.    "I  ought  to 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  283 

have  told  you  before  about  the  week-end,  but  it  slipped 
my  memory  until  the  last  moment." 

She  pressed  his  hand  tightly,  and  then  went  to  his 
study  for  the  case.  He  had  one  or  two  letters  to  finish, 
and  she  sat  by  his  side  while  he  wrote  them. 

"You  needn't  forward  any  correspondence,"  he  said. 
"It  isn't  worth  while.  I  shall  only  be  away  four  or 
five  days." 

Alicia  looked  up  with  a  new  surprise. 

"Four  or  five  days,  Stretton?" 

"Yes,  possibly.  I  have  paired  at  the  House,  and  I 
want  a  change.  There'll  be  some  shooting — and  I'm 
beastly  run  down." 

The  man  came  to  say  the  cab  was  waiting.  Stretton 
sprang  up  and  took  Alicia's  hand,  drawing  her  close 
to  him. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "good-bye,  my  darling.  For- 
give me  for  having  been  a  brute  to  you!" 

Alicia  kissed  him. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Stretton.  It  is  I  that  should 
ask  forgiveness.  I  have  been  so  impatient  and  ill- 
tempered." 

They  stayed  in  each  other's  arms  with  a  lingering 
embrace.  Then  Stretton  went  out  to  his  cab. 

Alicia  waited  at  the  front  door,  and  kissed  her  hand 
to  him,  with  moist  but  smiling  eyes,  as  he  drove  off. 
He  smiled  back  and  waved  his  hand,  but  his  face  was 
white  and  rather  haggard. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

STRETTON'S  genuine  emotion  at  leaving  Alicia — for 
a  few  days — reconciled  her  tenfold  to  the  parting. 
There  was  no  doubting  the  tenderness  of  his  words, 
the  strength  of  his  passionate  embraces.  He  had 
kissed  her  upon  the  lips;  to  her  it  was  a  long  spiritual 
kiss,  which  had  melted  all  his  coldness  into  the  memory 
of  their  first  communion,  and  after  he  had  gone  she 
found  her  loneliness  easy  to  bear  because  of  the  new 
trust  she  had  in  the  endurance  of  his  love.  Her 
thoughts  flew  back  a  month — two  months — to  the  day 
when  she  had  come  to  London,  almost  mad.  Stretton 
had  been  good  to  her,  and  so  chivalrous  and  kind,  so 
passionate  in  his  repentance  for  what  had  really  been 
an  accident,  or  at  most  a  little  carelessness  in  the  midst 
of  harassing  and  exciting  work.  For  a  month — for 
nearly  a  month — they  had  been  perfectly  happy  to- 
gether, and  Stretton  had  given  his  days  to  her  un- 
grudgingly, with  a  kingly  generosity. 

Alicia  thrust  back  the  remembrance  of  another 
month  of  coldness,  of  impatience,  of  hasty  words,  of 
brooding  silences.  That  was  an  unhappy  dream,  and 
had  now  passed.  She  kissed  Stretton's  photograph  in 
a  silver  frame  upon  the  piano,  and  then  opening  the 

284 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  285 

instrument  played  dreamily,  until  tears  fell  upon  her 
hands  and  wakened  her. 

She  wandered  into  his  study  and  sat  down  at  his 
desk  where  she  had  been  beside  him  as  he  wrote  his 
letters  before  going,  and  with  the  same  pen  she  now 
covered  several  sheets  of  paper  with  expressions  of 
love  and  self-reproach,  and  simple  words  of  thanks 
for  all  the  joy  he  had  brought  into  her  life,  ending  with 
a  laughing  plea  for  forgiveness  that  she  should  plague 
him  on  the  first  morning  of  his  well-earned  holiday 
when  he  would  read  her  foolish  words. 

She  sent  the  man  out  with  the  letter  after  her  dinner 
in  solitary  state  when  she  had  smiled  at  the  reflection 
of  herself  in  the  silver  mirror — a  woman  in  black  with 
a  full  white  neck,  sitting  very  straight  in  a  high-backed 
wooden  chair  like  a  figure  in  a  pre-Raphaelite  picture, 
and  on  either  side  of  her  a  tall  silver  candlestick  drop- 
ping a  pool  of  light  upon  the  polished  table. 

She  told  the  servants  not  to  wait  up  for  her,  and, 
pulling  a  low  stool  to  the  fire,  sat  there  with  her  head 
against  the  arm  of  the  sofa.  In  her  fanciful  way  she 
was  playing  a  game  of  make-believe,  and  pretended 
to  herself  that  Stretton  was  close  to  her,  and  that  her 
head  was  pillowed  against  his  knee.  The  idea  pleased 
her  and  a  smile  was  about  her  lips,  and  presently  her 
head  dropped  and  she  fell  asleep. 

But  as  the  fire  burned  low  and  the  candles  flickered 
out  and  the  chilliness  of  the  early  hours  crept  upon 
her,  she  whimpered  in  her  sleep,  and  then  woke  with 
a  sudden  cry  and  a  white  face  with  frightened  eyes. 


286  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Oh,  God!"  she  whispered,  and  struggled  to  her 
feet.  "What  a  frightful  dream!" 

She  groped  about  the  wall  for  the  electric  button, 
and  then  switched  on  the  light.  As  the  room  became 
bright  again  she  caught  sight  of  her  own  haggard  face 
and  tumbled  hair  in  the  mirror  above  the  mantel- 
board,  and  a  sudden  terror  seized  her. 

"Was  it  a  dream?"  she  whispered  again,  putting  her 
hand  to  her  temples.  She  stared  round  the  empty 
room  as  though  she  scarcely  realised  that  Stretton  was 
not  with  her,  and  as  though  the  knowledge  of  his  ab- 
sence came  to  her  with  a  fresh  shock. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat  with  a  little  strangled 
cry,  and  then,  picking  up  her  long  skirt,  sped  out  of 
the  study  and  up  the  stairs  to  her  bedroom,  where  she 
stood  panting  against  the  door. 

"What  a  fool  I  am!"  she  said.  "What  a  fool  and 
coward!" 

But  it  was  only  when  the  morning  broke  that  she 
fell  asleep,  and  during  her  waking  hours  her  mind 
had  gone  back  to  the  words  Stretton  had  said  when  he 
kissed  her  good-bye. 

"He  meant  to  say  no  more  than  that,"  she  said  to 
herself  a  hundred  times.  "What  made  me  dream  so 
horribly?" 

It  was  not  strange  that  when  she  went  in  the  morn- 
ing to  Hilary  Osgood's  studio  he  started  at  the  sight 
of  her. 

"How  white  you  look  and  ill!  What  on  earth  is 
the  matter?" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  287. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  I  am  too  ugly  for  you  to  paint, 
Bambino?" 

She  laughed,  deceiving  him  with  a  touch  of  her 
old  merriment. 

"Nay,  Madonna.  I  am  not  worthy  that  you  should 
come  into  my  poor  hovel.  But  your  beauty  will  trans- 
figure all  into  gold  and  amethyst,  and  Parian  marble. 
I  scatter  flowers  before  your  feet." 

He  took  a  rose  from  a  glass  and  strewed  the  petals 
on  the  floor  before  her. 

"Is  this  what  you  call  a  poor  hovel?  What  is  your 
notion  of  luxury,  Signor  Bambino?" 

Alicia  looked  round  the  studio,  a  high  panelled  room 
with  a  timbered  ceiling,  like  an  old  English  hall.  It 
was  the  room  of  a  man  of  artistic  and  antiquarian  taste, 
with  the  money  to  carry  out  ideas.  Trophies  of  arms 
were  ranged  about  the  walls,  and  at  each  corner  stood 
dummy  men-at-arms  in  complete  suits  of  German  mail 
richly  chased.  The  floor  was  strewn  with  Persian 
rugs,  and  before  the  great  chimney-place,  where  a  log 
fire  burned  merrily,  was  a  great  black  bearskin.  In 
an  alcove  half  hidden  by  a  hanging  piece  of  faded 
tapestry  was  a  copy  of  the  Venus  of  Milo,  before 
which  burned  a  dim  red  lamp. 

"Do  you  worship  that  creature?"  said  Alicia. 

"Yes,  that  is  my  religion — the  Idea  of  Beauty." 

A  number  of  canvases  stood  faced  against  the  walls, 
and  a  blank  one  stood  ready  on  an  easel  before  a  dais, 
but  there  was  not  a  single  painting  displayed. 

''I  cannot  afford  to  buy  good  pictures,"  said  Hilary, 


288  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

answering  a  question,  "and  I  could  not  bear  to  be 
stared  at  by  my  own  or  other  people's  failures." 

"That  is  not  very  encouraging  to  me,  and  I  have  a 
good  mind  not  to  sit  to  you.  I  should  not  care  to  be 
another  of  your  failures." 

She  teased  him  with  this  threat  so  that  he  became 
alarmed. 

"Madonna!  You  will  not  be  cruel!  You  are  to 
be  my  great  success.  I  feel  at  last  the  spirit  of  beauty 
has  visited  me,  and  I  am  blessed  among  men." 

"You  are  a  blessed  young  egotist,"  said  Alicia, 
laughing.  "Well,  where  do  you  want  me  to  sit  down, 
and  how?" 

Hilary  held  out  his  hand  and  took  the  tips  of  her 
fingers,  leading  her  to  the  dais,  upon  which  he  had 
placed  an  old  oak  chair,  quaintly  carved. 

"That  was  once  a  queen's  chair,"  he  said,  "and 
shall  be  so  again  if  you  deign  to  sit  on  such  a  worm- 
eaten  thing." 

Alicia  sat  back  with  her  hands  upon  the  heads  of 
two  lions  couchant,  which  supported  the  arms  of  the 
old  chair.  She  sat  very  straight,  with  her  head  erect 
and  a  far-off  look  in  her  eyes.  She  had  suddenly  for- 
gotten the  existence  of  Hilary,  and  was  wondering 
what  Stretton  was  doing,  and  whether  he  had  read  her 
letter  yet. 

But  Hilary  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  seized  his 
palette  and  brushes. 

"Oh!"  he  said.  "Stay  like  that,  for  dear  God's 
sake.  Do  not  move!" 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  289 

This,  of  course,  caused  Alicia  to  wake  out  of  her 
reverie,  and  to  lose  her  look  of  mysticism  in  laughter 
at  Hilary's  "high-falutin,"  as  she  called  it,  which  led 
immediately  to  a  mock  quarrel,  ending  in  Hilary's 
sudden  abandonment  of  palette  and  brushes 

"My  inspiration  is  gone,"  he  said.  "Your  cruelty 
has  mined  my  hopes  of  fame — for  this  day  at  least, 
O  belle  Dame  sans  merci!" 

Then  he  saw  that  she  was  shivering  with  cold  in  a 
studio  that  would  never  get  warm  however  big  the 
fire  in  the  great  chimney-place.  He  was  seized  with 
sudden  remorse,  and  rushing  to  an  oak  chest  produced 
an  elaborate  set  of  utensils  for  making  coffee. 

"Let  art  go  hang,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  do  any- 
thing at  that,  but  I  should  have  made  a  giddy  fortune 
as  a  cook.  Now  sit  on  that  fire,  or  as  near  it  as  you 
can  get,  and  in  ten  minutes  I  will  give  you  the  most 
exquisite  cup  of  coffee  to  be  found  nearer  west  than 
Constantinople — where  I  learnt  to  make  it." 

There  was  no  painting  that  morning,  therefore. 
Alicia  was  really  cold,  chilled  spiritually  as  well  as 
physically,  by  a  night  of  wakefulness.  She  was  glad 
of  the  fire  and  of  the  coffee,  and  of  Hilary's  friendli- 
ness. This  morning  she  felt  more  drawn  towards  the 
young  eccentric  than  the  amusement  he  had  given  her 
before  had  allowed.  He  dropped  his  fantastic  way  of 
speaking,  and  became  more  reasonable  and  serious, 
and  she  believed  that  beneath  all  his  foppishness  and 
folly  there  was  the  heart  of  an  honest  gentleman. 

She  spoke  to  him  presently  of  Stretton. 


290  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

"Do  not  let  him  work  too  hard/'  she  said.  "He  is 
not  so  strong  as  he  believes,  and  I  am  afraid  he  will 
break  down  if  he  goes  on  like  this." 

Hilary  gave  a  queer,  short  laugh.  "Does  he  work 
so  hard?" 

"He  is  at  that  wretched  House  from  the  early  after- 
noon till  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  It  is  too 
great  a  strain." 

Hilary  was  thoughtful,  and  smoked  a  cigarette  till 
it  burnt  his  finger-tips. 

"I  suppose  you  know  he  has  thrown  overboard  his 
Individualism?" 

Alicia  put  her  coffee  down  and  looked  at  Hilary 
with  frightened  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said  faintly. 

Hilary  hesitated. 

"Hasn't  he  told  you?  Then  it's  hardly  my  place 
to " 

"Oh,  nonsense,  nonsense,"  said  Alicia  quickly. 
"Stretton  has  told  me  nothing  lately.  He  has  been 
so  moody  and  silent.  Tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Hilary  laughed  uneasily. 

"Oh,  nothing  much  has  happened.  Stretton  had  a 
quarrel  with  Waynefleet,  and  then  a  long  interview 
with  the  Government  whip.  Since  then  he  and  twelve 
of  our  party  have  voted  consistently  on  the  Govern- 
ment side.  It  has  smashed  up  the  little  Individualist 
party — that's  about  all  that  has  happened — and  it  has 
no  great  significance  in  the  history  of  mankind." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  291 

"Then  Stretton  has  broken  all  his  pledges  and  ship- 
wrecked his  own  party?" 

"That's  about  it.    He  hasn't  played  the  game." 

Alicia  bent  her  head  as  though  before  a  blow. 

"Don't  take  it  too  seriously,"  said  Hilary,  looking 
rather  anxiously  at  Alicia's  white  face  and  tragic  eyes. 

Alicia  put  her  hand  to  her  temples  and  gave  a  little 
moan. 

"Oh,  I  do  take  it  seriously,  I  do  take  it  seriously. 
I  know  nothing  about  Individualism,  but  I  believed  in 
Stretton.  I  did  not  think  he  would  play  a  traitor's 
part." 

She  took  Hilary  by  the  wrist  and  bent  forward  to 
him. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said.  "Has  he  been  at  the  House  all 
these  hours  every  day  ...  or  was  he  lying  to  me?" 

Hilary  was  silent,  and  fidgeted  with  uncomfortable 
embarrassment. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Alicia.  "I  must  know  the  truth.  I 
can't  afford  not  to  know  it.  Don't  you  see  that?" 

Hilary  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  studio. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  speaking  excitedly  and  in- 
coherently. "Stretton  is  my  friend  and  I  have  an 
old-fashioned  idea  of  friendship.  But  ...  I  ...  I 
think  you  have  a  right  to  know  the  truth.  I  think  I 
ought  to  give  you  a  warning,  and  I  should  like  to  say 
that  I  love  you  .  .  .  but  that  would  be  a  caddish 
thing,  just  now.  .  .  ." 

Alicia  laughed  bitterly.     "No,  don't  say  you  love 


292  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

me,  else  I  shall  think  you  are  a  liar,  too.  Tell  me 
.  .  .  what  is  your  warning?" 

"Well,"  said  Hilary,  "the  fact  is  that  Stretton  has 
been  spending  most  of  his  afternoons  lately  at  Haver- 
ing House  .  .  .  with  Lady  Betty  Huddlestone.  Jack 
Huddlestone  tells  me  they  are  practically  engaged." 

"Who  are  practically  engaged?"  said  Alicia  stupidly. 

She  pressed  her  hair  back  from  her  forehead,  and 
moistened  her  lips  with  a  sip  of  coffee. 

"Why,  Stretton  and  Betty." 

Hilary  wondered  at  Alicia's  quietude.  She  sat  star- 
ing into  the  fire,  and  only  the  pallor  of  her  face  showed 
that  she  felt  any  unusual  emotion. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you.  But  Stret- 
ton was  not  playing  the  game  with  you.  I  thought 
you  ought  to  know." 

He  bent  over  her  and  put  a  hand  lightly  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Madonna!"  he  said.  "If  you  would  let  me  look 
after  you " 

She  stood  up,  shaking  off  his  hand  as  if  it  had  stung 
her. 

Then  she  shuddered  violently. 

"I  thank  you  for  telling  me.  If  you  say  anything 
more  I  shall  hate  you — as  much  as  I  hate  Stretton 
Wingfield." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  furs  with  trembling  hands, 
and  Hilary  watched  her  with  a  scared  look. 

"I'm  beastly  sorry,"  he  murmured. 

She  swept  through  the  studio  with  her  head  high 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  293 

and  a  strange   expression  of  scorn   upon  her   pale 

face. 

Hilary  opened  the  door  for  her  humbly. 
"Madonna!"  he  said  tenderly,  "Madonna!" 
But  she  did  not  answer  him  or  look  at  him,  and 

went  out  into  the  street  as  if — so  it  seemed  to  Hilary 

— as  if  she  were  walking  in  her  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

ALICIA  went  home  in  a  stupid,  dazed  condition.  She 
was  only  conscious  of  one  thing — that  Stretton  had 
betrayed  her,  that  her  love  for  him  had  changed  into 
hate,  suddenly  and  swiftly,  but  irretrievably.  Her 
own  honesty  and  sincerity  made  her  hate  a  lie  worse 
than  anything  in  life,  and  the  man  she  had  loved  had 
lied  to  her,  not  once,  but  many  times.  He  had  given 
her  to  believe  that  though  he  had  lost  hope  in  his 
party  it  was  still  his  party.  He  had  admitted  failure, 
but  he  had  put  the  blame  of  it  upon  the  stupidity  of 
his  followers.  He  had  not  confessed  his  own  betrayal. 
Oh,  that  was  bad,  a  black  and  wicked  thing,  but  there 
was  something  worse  and  meaner.  He  had  been  a 
living  lie  to  the  woman  who  loved  him.  He  had  pre- 
tended to  her  to  be  overworked  at  the  House.  He 
had  gone  down  early  in  the  morning,  and  she  had 
given  him  her  sympathy,  wept  in  loneliness  that  he 
should  work  so  hard,  kissed  his  forehead  and  sighed 
that  his  brain  should  be  so  overstrained!  And  he  had 
found  time  to  spend  part  of  each  day  with  some  other 
woman — Betty  Huddlestone — Lady  Betty — and  they 
were  "practically  engaged"!  Oh,  God!  she  had  been 
nothing  but  his  mistress  after  all!  He  had  violated 
her  love  as  though  she  were  a  shameless  woman! 

294 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  295 

Alicia  stood  in  the  studio  where  only  a  few  hours 
before  he  had  held  her  in  his  embrace.  She  shuddered 
at  the  thought.  With  a  sudden  fierce  passion  she 
tore  off  a  brooch  he  had  given  her  and  flung  it  on  the 
floor.  She  tore  at  a  ring  which  he  had  kissed  before 
placing  on  her  finger.  It  was  tight,  but  she  screwed 
it  over  the  knuckle  so  that  her  finger  went  numb, 
and  was  bruised  at  the  joint.  Then  she  threw  the  ring 
into  the  heart  of  the  fire,  where  it  glowed  with  an 
intense  brightness,  so  that  her  eyes  could  not  bear  it, 
and  she  broke  down  black  coals  upon  it.  Her  intense 
excitement  had  maddened  her,  and  she  wandered  up 
and  down  the  room  uttering  little  moans  of  pain  as  if 
she  were  in  some  physical  torture.  But  when  a  knock 
came  at  the  door  she  struggled  into  momentary  self- 
command,  and  pressing  back  her  disordered  hair,  cried 
"Come  in"  in  a  cold  voice  that  was  steady  enough  to 
keep  up  appearances.  Stretton's  man  brought  in  a 
letter  on  a  silver  salver.  For  a  moment  she  wondered 
whether  she  could  take  it.  By  a  curious  psychological 
sensation  it  seemed  impossible  to  do  anything  but 
stare  at  it.  Her  will-power  was  not  strong  enough  to 
command  her  muscles.  Yet  really  her  hesitation  was 
only  momentary,  and  when  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
it  did  not  tremble.  The  letter  was  from  Stretton,  and 
when  the  man  had  gone  she  opened  it  with  extraordi- 
nary calmness.  Her  emotions  had  been  so  violent  that 
when  they  were  arrested  by  the  sudden  need  of  ap- 
pearing at  ease  before  a  servant  she  suffered  a  reaction 


296  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

and  felt  as  though  nothing  would  ever  excite  her  again. 
It  was  a  long  letter,  and  sitting  at  the  table  by  the 
electric  lamp  she  read  it  slowly  with  cold  and  scornful 
eyes. 

"My  DEAR  ALICIA  [wrote  Stretton], 

"I  am  writing  what  I  know  will  hurt  you  terribly, 
yet  it  hurts  me  more  to  write  it.  In  the  first  place  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  have  resigned  my  seat  in  the 
House.  For  some  weeks  now  I  have  seen  the  folly  of 
my  position.  Individualism  is  not  only  a  failure,  it 
is  a  sham.  At  the  beginning  I  had  a  certain  sincerity. 
Waynefleet  converted  me  to  his  views,  and  I  plunged 
into  his  campaign  with  real  enthusiasm,  inspired  to  a 
great  extent  by  your  own  dear  sympathy  and  en- 
couragement. But  it  was  only  a  half-conversion,  and 
a  superficial  sincerity.  At  the  bottom  of  me,  and 
instinctively,  I  am  a  Conservative.  My  democratic 
ideals  were  only  intellectual  playthings.  Really,  I 
have  never  been  able  to  get  away  from  my  blood,  or 
to  break  with  the  traditions  of  my  class.  In  the  ex- 
citement of  fighting  a  campaign  I  was  kept  up  by 
the  mere  lust  of  fighting  when  one  cause  is  as  good  as 
another,  and  any  cry  is  good  enough  to  carry  into 
battle.  But  when  the  campaign  was  over,  and  the 
glamour  of  the  excitement  had  worn  off,  I  began  to 
discover  my  fatal  error.  I  was  in  the  wrong  camp! 
Gradually  I  sickened  at  my  own  insincerity.  I  con- 
fess, too,  I  shrank  from  the  ridicule  of  the  House. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  297 

My  father's  ghost  confronted  me.  I  was  dishonouring 
his  name.  He  was  the  Rupert  of  the  House,  and  I, 
his  son,  was  the  butt  for  every  man's  wit!  I  was 
labelled  with  a  name  which  was  a  public  mockery,  the 
leader  of  a  party  of  court  fools.  No,  I  was  not  even 
leader!  Waynefleet,  low  scoundrel  and  libertine  as 
he  is,  was  the  only  Individualist,  and  the  House  would 
listen  only  to  him,  while  I  sat  by  his  side  contaminated 
by  his  malodorous  reputation  without  even  the  prestige 
of  his  ill-fame.  Could  I  go  on  like  this?  Perhaps  if 
I  had  more  pluck  and  less  honour  I  could  have  won 
a  place  by  perjuring  my  better  instincts.  God  knows! 
Anyhow  I  have  decided  to  abandon  an  ignominious 
position  and  to  start  from  a  fresh  place.  I  have  re- 
signed my  seat  on  the  democratic  side,  in  return  for 
the  promise  of  a  safe  seat  by  the  Government.  My 
uncle  Unstead  has  promised  other  things,  which  will 
at  least  give  me  a  chance  to  redeem  a  miserable 
failure. 

"This  is  only  half  of  what  I  set  out  to  tell  you, 
though  it  will  explain  some  of  the  motives  for  what  is 
the  most  painful  decision  of  my  life. 

"My  dear  Alicia,  the  time  has  come  when  we  can 
no  longer  live  together!  Alas!  Alas!  I  hear  you  cry 
out  that  you  still  love  me,  and  that  you  believe  in  my 
love  for  you.  I  know,  I  know.  No  man  has  been 
more  blessed  than  I  have  been  in  your  generous,  your 
splendid,  your  beautiful  love.  It  has  encircled  me  with 
a  kind  of  spiritual  fire,  purifying  and  ennobling,  and 
infinitely  comforting.  And  I  love  you,  too,  with  a 


298  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

passion  that  will  never  fade  from  my  heart.  In  years 
to  come  when  perhaps  I  have  a  wife  and  children  I 
shall  look  back  upon  these  recent  months  as  a  beauti- 
ful and  sacred  dream.  I  shall  never  know  another 
woman  so  good.  You  are  the  purest  and  the  noblest 
woman  on  God's  earth. 

"But  I  am  a  weak  man  and  not  strong  enough  to 
resist  the  blind  and  hideous  force  of  Fate.  I  know 
my  temperament  and  I  cannot  struggle  against  it. 
You,  I  know,  would  be  happy  in  poverty  and  insignifi- 
cance. I  should  be  so  miserable  that  I  should  be  a 
curse  to  you  and  to  myself.  And  that  is  what  would 
happen  if  we  obeyed  the  promptings  of  our  love.  Pov- 
erty and  squalid  domesticity  would  be  the  atmosphere 
of  our  lives.  Already  I  am  heavily  and  damnably  in 
debt.  I  can  only  clear  myself  by  beginning  a  new 
life — without  you,  my  beloved.  I  can  only  avoid  social 
shipwreck  by  selling  myself — I  was  going  to  say  to  the 
devil — but  Betty  Huddlestone,  who  is  willing  to  marry 
me  with  all  my  debts,  is  hardly  the  devil!  She  is  a 
good  ugly  girl  and  very  rich,  and  in  her  way  she  loves 
me.  It  was  Unstead  who  put  the  temptation  in  my 
way,  though  really  it  is  Fate  which  has  shuffled  the 
cards  and  dealt  out — Betty!  Perhaps  I  have  sold  my- 
self to  the  devil.  Now  that  I  write  I  think  I  have, 
and  if  I  were  a  religious  man  I  think  I  should  go 
down  on  my  knees  and  pray  that  I  might  be  delivered 
from  the  Beast.  But  I  am  not  religious.  I  am  a 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  299 

weak,  ambitious,  selfish  wretch,  who  cannot  be  blind 
to  his  weakness  or  throttle  his  ambition. 

"My  dear  Alicia,  my  good  angel,  I  suffer  torment  in 
writing  these  things.  But  you  will  see  my  position, 
and  you  are  more  unselfish  than  I  am.  I  have  made 
arrangements  to  pay  you  £300  a  year  for  life.  Betty, 
who  knows  everything,  agrees  to  that.  I  enclose  a 
cheque  now  which  will,  I  hope,  make  things  comfort- 
able for  you  from  the  beginning.  Do  not  leave  Duke 
Street  until  it  suits  your  convenience.  I  shall  not  be 
back  for  a  month. 

"God  bless  you.  I  have  sometimes  been  cold  to 
you  and  ill-tempered,  but  only  because  of  my  worries. 
I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  your  feet.  Yet  I  kiss  you 
once  more  upon  the  lips,  with  a  spiritual  kiss  in  which 
there  is  all  the  love  of  my  soul  and  body. 

"SXRETTON." 

Alicia's  eyes  burned  with  a  cold  fire.  Not  once  in 
reading  the  letter  had  any  sign  of  tears  softened  her 
scornful  look.  The  letter  revealed  to  her  in  a  white 
and  ghastly  light  the  rottenness,  the  vicious  weakness, 
the  essential  selfishness  of  the  man,  and  there  grew 
upon  her  a  sickening  sense  of  shame  that  she  should 
have  loved  this  liar  and  coward. 

She  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and  taking  up  his  cheque 
hid  it  quickly  in  an  envelope,  with  her  head  turned 
away  from  it,  as  though  the  sight  of  it  were  horrible. 
Then  she  wrote  an  answer  to  the  letter. 

"I  send  back  your  money,"  she  wrote.    "I  am  no 


300  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

longer  your  paid  woman.    I  leave  your  house  to-day, 
and  your  life  for  ever." 

She  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant  and  told  him  to 
post  the  letter.  Then  she  went  upstairs  to  pack  her 
few  personal  belongings. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

ALICIA'S  packing  did  not  take  long.  She  got  into 
the  same  dress  she  had  worn  when  she  came  to  Duke 
Street,  and  put  into  her  bags  only  the  few  simple 
gowns  that  she  had  brought  from  Long  Stretton.  Once 
during  this  work  she  broke  down  for  a  minute,  and 
sinking  to  her  knees  with  her  arms  stretched  upon  the 
bed  broke  into  convulsive  sobs.  But  she  quickly  mas- 
tered herself  and  washed  her  smarting  eyes,  and  swept 
the  last  things  into  her  bags  with  a  quick  and  nervous 
energy.  Then  she  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  James 
to  fetch  a  cab. 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  at  the  door. 

"When  will  you  be  back,  miss?" 

"I  am  not  coming  back,  James." 

For  a  moment  a  human  look  came  into  the  man's 
face,  which  was  ordinarily  like  a  mask. 

"I  ...  I  am  very  sorry,  miss  ...  if  you'll  allow 
me  to  say  so." 

"Thank  you,  James." 

She  took  a  sovereign  from  her  purse  and  gave  it  to 
him. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  hope  I  have 
not  been  much  trouble." 

"Not  in  the  least,  miss." 

301 


302  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

The  man  cleared  his  throat. 

"Me  and  the  other  servants  have  always  felt  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  wait  on  a  lady  so — so  unsolicitous,  if  I 
may  say  so,  miss." 

"Ah!  The  other  servants,"  said  Alicia.  She  took 
another  couple  of  sovereigns,  the  last  but  one.  It 
was  her  own  money,  not  Stretton's.  "Give  this  to 
them,  with  my  grateful  thanks.  They  have  all  been 
very  kind." 

"Thank  you,  miss.  I  am  sure  they  will  reciproke 
your  feelings." 

The  man's  face  became  a  mask  again,  and  he  dis- 
appeared to  fetch  a  cab. 

But  Alicia  did  not  leave  the  house  so  soon  as  she 
had  thought. 

The  housekeeper  came  up  a  minute  later,  in  a  state 
of  flurry. 

"If  you  please,  miss,  there's  an  old  lady  downstairs 
what  says  she  is  the  aunt  of  the  master.  'I  am  in 
great  trouble,  my  dear,'  she  says,  'and  I  must  see  Mr. 
Stretton  at  once.'  'Mr.  Stretton's  away,  mum,'  I  says. 
'Away!'  she  says,  that  startled  and  white.  'Then  he 
can't  have  got  my  letter.  Good  gracious!  what  shall 
I  do?'  she  says.  She  went  all  faint-like,  miss,  and  I 
asks  her  to  come  in  and  take  a  cup  of  tea.  And  there 
she  sits,  miss,  in  the  droring-room,  all  in  black  and 
misery,  like  a  widder  waiting  for  the  funeral." 

Alicia  was  startled,  and  at  the  thought  that  one  of 
the  dear  ladies  was  under  the  same  roof  she  forgot  her 
eagerness  to  leave  the  house. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  303 

"I  will  go  down  to  her — perhaps  she  is  ill." 

"Ah!  she  looks  that  frail  a  draught  might  puff  her 
away,  bonnet  and  all,  miss." 

Alicia  went  downstairs  and  quietly  opened  the  draw- 
ing-room door. 

There  she  saw  Miss  Cecily.  The  old  lady  was  sit- 
ting very  quietly  in  a  high  chair  with  her  hands  in 
black  mittens  clasped  upon  her  lap.  Her  white  deli- 
cate face,  framed  in  fair  curls,  beneath  a  bonnet  with 
black  sequins,  was  hanging  down  sadly,  like  a  flower 
withered  on  its  stalk. 

Alicia  went  to  her  swiftly  and  softly,  and  knelt 
down  by  her  side,  taking  her  hands. 

"Miss  Cecily!" 

The  old  lady  looked  up  with  a  nervous  little  start. 

"Alicia?  Oh,  my  dear.  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you! 
Where  is  Stretton?" 

In  her  agitation  she  did  not  realise  the  significance 
of  Alicia's  presence  in  Stretton's  house.  For  a  few 
moments  it  seemed  to  her  the  most  natural  thing  to 
see  her  protegee  again  in  London. 

"Stretton  is  away." 

"How  terribly  unfortunate!"  said  Miss  Cecily,  with 
excitement.  "He  cannot  have  got  my  letter  telling 
him  the  dreadful  news." 

"What  news,  dear  Miss  Cecily?" 

The  little  lady  burst  into  tears. 

"My  dear  sister  is  dead.  She  died  yesterday  at 
our  friends'  house  in  London.  The  cold  journey  was 
too  much  for  her!  Her  poor  heart  stopped  when  she 


304  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

lifted  a  cup  of  tea.  It  was  spilt  all  over  her  new 
gown." 

She  put  her  head  on  Alicia's  shoulder  and  shed  sad 
tears. 

"Poor  dear  Miss  Agnes!"  said  Alicia. 

"I  am  left  alone  now,  my  dear,"  sobbed  Miss  Cecily. 
"And  I  used  to  pray  that  I  might  be  taken  first.  .  .  . 
We  shall  never  sing  another  duet." 

Alicia  tried  to  soothe  her,  but  the  old  lady  wept 
like  a  little  child.  Presently  she  pushed  her  chair 
back  and  stared  at  Alicia  with  a  sudden  astonishment. 

"My  dear,"  she  stammered,  "what  are  you  doing 
here  ...  in  this  house?" 

Alicia  bent  her  head  and  was  silent. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  repeated  Miss  Cecily. 
"I — I — do  not  understand." 

For  a  moment  Alicia  wondered  whether  she  should 
lie  to  her,  whether  she  should  hide  Stretton's  infamy 
and  her  own  shame  from  this  dear  soul.  But  her  de- 
spair, her  infinite  need  for  sympathy  and  for  a  woman's 
love,  her  bitter  anger  against  Stretton's  treachery,  broke 
down  her  hesitation,  and  she  told  the  truth,  simply. 

"I  have  been  living  here  with  Stretton." 

Miss  Cecily  gave  a  little  gasp. 

"With  Stretton?"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  frightened 
wonder  in  her  voice.  "You  have  been  living  with 
him?" 

Something  seemed  to  dawn  upon  her,  and  raising 
trembling  hands,  as  though  she  would  hide  Alicia  from 
her  sight,  she  said  in  a  whisper — 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  305 

"Then  it  was  Stretton ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Alicia;  "it  was  Stretton." 

Miss  Cecily  drew  a  deep  breath  and  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands. 

Alicia  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  there  came 
to  her  in  the  silence  that  followed  a  feeling  of  awful 
loathing  for  the  man  who  had  stolen  her  heart  and 
then  flung  it  bleeding  into  the  dust. 

Miss  Cecily  clutched  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  pale 
eyes  dimmed  with  tears. 

"How  terrible!  .  .  .  What  would  poor  Agnes  say?" 

Then  she  bent  forward  eagerly,  ever  so  anxiously. 

"My  child  .  .  .  tell  me  ...  he  has  married  you? 
...  he  has  made  you  an  honest  woman?" 

"He  has  abandoned  me,"  said  Alicia,  a  sudden  flush 
of  anger  stinging  her  face.  "He  has  betrayed  me,  and 
tired  of  me.  I  am  leaving  his  house  this  morning.  I 
should  already  be  in  the  streets  if  you  hadn't  come." 

"In  the  streets?"  said  Miss  Cecily,  with  a  look  of 
horror. 

"Yes  ...  or  in  the  river." 

Miss  Cecily  raised  her  hands  again. 

"Not  that!"  she  whispered. 

Alicia  bent  her  head. 

"No,  I  should  not  do  that.  I  was  a  hypocrite  when 
I  said  that.  I  should  not  let  a  man's  baseness  lower 
me  so  far.  I  shall  have  to  struggle  on  somehow.  Lon- 
don is  a  great  cruel  world,  but  there  is  always  work  to 
be  got  by  strong  and  willing  hands.  It  is  only  the 
weak  who  really  go  under,  but  I  am  strong.  I  sup- 


306  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

pose,  even  though  I  have  no  'character/  I  can  get  a 
place  somewhere,  in  a  factory,  or  some  low-class  shop. 
There  is  plenty  of  dirt  in  London  that  wants  cleaning, 
and  I  suppose  they  are  not  too  particular  about  the 
soul  of  a  woman  who  scrubs  a  floor." 

Miss  Cecily  listened  to  her  with  growing  horror. 

"My  dear!"  she  said.  "My  dear!  .  .  .  This  is  too 
terrible!" 

"No,  it  is  not  too  terrible,"  said  Alicia.  "There  are 
thousands  of  women  like  me,  women  who  have  been 
worse  dealt  with  and  have  to  suffer  more.  It  is  not 
more  terrible  for  me  than  for  them." 

"Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  said  Miss  Cecily. 
"You  never  wrote  to  me,  though  I  prayed  for  you 
every  night  that  you  might  be  kept  from  harm." 

"You  prayed  for  me?  Oh,  that  was  good  of  you 
.  .  .  and  yet,  as  you  see," — she  smiled  wistfully — 
"your  prayers  were  of  no  avail.  I  suppose  I  am  too 
wicked?" 

Miss  Cecily  shook  her  head. 

"You  are  not  wicked.  ...  I  shall  never  believe 
that!  I  said  so  often  to  poor  Agnes,  who  is  now  in 
heaven,  'Alicia  was  weak,'  I  said,  'but  she  was  not 
wicked.  It  is  the  man  who  deceived  her  who  is 
wicked.'  Oh,  to  think  that  that  was  Stretton,  my  own 
nephew." 

She  struck  her  frail  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"I  will  never  speak  to  him  again!"  Then  she 
mopped  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  and  broke 
into  reproaches  and  lamentations. 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  307 

"To  think  that  he  should  have  come  down  to  our 
village  to  bring  such  misery  .  .  .  and  after  we  had 
treated  him  with  such  love  and  kindness!  I  used  to 
think  he  was  so  good,  so  true,  so  brave!  Many  a  time 
I  have  stinted  myself  to  send  him  money.  I  know  how 
expensive  it  is  in  London,  and  the  shop-people  are  all 
thieves,  my  dear.  And  poor  dear  Agnes  used  to  say 
when  she  sent  him  his  cheques,  'Stretton  is  a  good 
young  man,  we  must  not  begrudge  him  this  money, 
though  we  are  not  rich.'  Oh,  but  he  was  a  serpent 
in  our  own  bosom.  To  think  that  our  own  nephew 
and  a  Wingfield  should  be  so  base!" 

Alicia  began  to  fear  that  this  excitement  would 
make  the  old  lady  ill.  She  tried  to  soothe  her. 

"Don't  think  about  it  any  more,  dear  Miss  Cecily. 
I  can  never  forgive  him,  because,  because  he  has  ruined 
my  life  .  .  .  but  I  shall  build  up  a  new  life,  I  hope.  I 
am  not  going  to  be  faint-hearted  or  yield  to  despair." 

She  stared  out  of  the  window  as  if  she  looked  into 
that  new  life,  as  indeed  she  did,  and  finding  it  so  grey, 
and  cold,  and  cruel,  she  had  a  momentary  weakness, 
and  burst  into  tears.  To  a  woman  the  sight  of  another 
woman's  tears  is  always  an  appeal  to  her  motherhood 
and  tenderness.  Miss  Cecily  rose  from  her  chair  and 
went  over  to  the  girl,  taking  her  head  in  her  hands. 

"My  child,"  she  said.  "My  poor  injured  child.  I 
— I  am  a  weak  ignorant  woman,  and  I  feel  quite  lost 
without  my  dear  sister  .  .  .  but,  but  I  feel  that  per- 
haps God  has  brought  me  to  you  at  this  time  of  your 
despair  .  .  .  with  a  definite  purpose.  My  own  sor- 


308  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

row  made  me  selfish.  I  think  I  should  have  dwelt  with 
it  too  much,  and  gone  down  to  the  grave  a  lonely  and 
selfish  old  woman.  .  .  .  My  dear  .  .  .  save  me  from 
that!  Come  back  to  me  to  the  village.  Come  and 
share  my  lonely  home.  It  shall  be  yours  until  I  die." 

She  trembled  excessively  as  she  spoke,  and  her  tears 
fell  upon  Alicia's  hair. 

Alicia  looked  up  with  a  kind  of  frightened  joy  in 
her  eyes.  She  clasped  the  old  lady's  hands  and  cov- 
ered them  with  kisses,  but  she  could  not  speak  a  word. 

"I  think  poor  Agnes  would  approve  of  what  I  say," 
went  on  Miss  Cecily.  "In  her  lifetime  she  was  some- 
times a  little  severe  .  .  .  but  always  kind,  always 
merciful,  my  dear.  And  now  that  she  is  in  heaven, 
I  think,  oh,  I  am  sure,  she  would  wish  me  to  shelter 
you,  and  do  something  to  redeem  our  nephew's  sin. 
You  will  come  with  me  then,  my  dear?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Alicia,  in  a.  broken  voice.  "I 
couldn't!" 

"It  would  be  for  my  sake;  I  have  no  one  to  take 
care  of  me.  I  should  pine  away  in  loneliness.  You 
hardly  know  what  my  dear  sister's  loss  means  to  me. 
Every  room  is  empty  without  her  .  .  .  but  not  so 
empty  as  my  heart!  So  you  will  take  care  of  me, 
Alicia?  You  were  always  so  good  to  me  ...  I  should 
be  very  happy  to  have  you." 

Alicia  refused  again  and  again,  though  she  wept 
with  joyful  gratitude  at  the  invitation,  which  seemed 
to  come  straight  from  the  goodness  of  God,  offering 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  309 

her  a  haven  in  which  to  find  shelter  for  her  wounded 
heart. 

But  at  last  Miss  Cecily's  earnest  entreaties  over- 
came her  opposition,  which  sprang  from  a  reluctance 
to  accept  so  great,  so  infinite  a  favour,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  in  her  sense  of  shame  and  despair. 

"May  God  reward  you,"  she  said,  kneeling  on  the 
floor  before  Miss  Cecily,  with  her  arms  about  the  old 
lady's  waist.  "I  think  you  have  saved  me  from  a  pit 
of  hell." 

"Hush!  hush!"  said  Miss  Cecily.  "It  is  most  kind 
of  you,  my  dear,  to  share  an  old  woman's  life.  I 
shall  always  be  grateful  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

IN  front  of  the  Brixton  Town  Hall  a  great  crowd, 
packed  so  densely  that  there  was  none  of  that  sway- 
ing to  and  fro  or  those  ceaseless  combinations  of  in- 
dividuals and  groups  that  characterise  a  crowd  loosely 
coherent,  stared  upwards  at  a  white  board  on  which 
certain  figures  suddenly  appeared,  and  then  disap- 
peared, and  then  reappeared  with  different  totals.  And 
on  the  board  two  names  in  large  black  letters  stood 
out  unchanging,  while  the  numbers  against  them  al- 
tered at  regular  intervals.  The  names  were — 

DAVID  HEATH  (S.) 
STRETTON  WINGFIELD   (C.) 

Every  window  in  the  Town  Hall  was  blazing  with 
light,  and  occasionally  dark  shadows  passed  across 
them,  sometimes  vague  and  blurred,  but  sometimes  so 
clearly  silhouetted  that  the  outline  of  a  man's  profile 
was  easily  recognisable.  A  battalion  of  policemen  kept 
a  hollow  square  before  the  building.  To  those  press- 
ing behind  them  or  feeling  the  heavy  weight  of  those 
stalwart  men  in  blue  who  leaned  backwards  upon  them 
with  outstretched  arms  it  was  difficult  to  see  the  rea- 
sonableness of  that  open  space  which  would  have  given 

310 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  311 

breathing  room  to  many  who  were  being  crushed  and 
stifled.  But  an  English  crowd  takes  its  discomforts 
generally  with  good  humour,  and  though  now  and 
again  there  was  a  sudden  and  dangerous  pressure  from 
behind  and  a  deep  and  menacing  roar  which  might 
perhaps  have  jangled  the  nerves  of  a  foreigner  who 
did  not  know  the  abiding  lawfulness  of  a  great  gath- 
ering of  respectable  English  citizens,  it  always  sub- 
sided quickly  as  mounted  policemen  backed  gently  on 
to  the  front  ranks,  to  the  mirth  of  those  behind. 

Into  the  hollow  square  a  little  white  dog  wriggled 
its  way  by  some  miracle  of  canine  ingenuity,  and  then, 
scared  by  its  solitude,  sat  down  and  shivered.  A  great 
roar  of  laughter  clattered  against  the  windows  of  the 
Town  Hall,  and  when  the  dog  howled  in  terror  of  the 
awful  noise  another  great  shout  drowned  its  yelping. 
It  is  one  of  the  standing  jokes  of  an  election,  and  the 
little  white  dog  in  the  hollow  square  is  like  an  old 
"wheeze"  at  a  music-hall  which  never  fails  to  bring 
the  house  down. 

In  an  upper  room  of  the  Town  Hall  a  small  group 
of  people  listened  to  the  laughter  and  the  groans  and 
the  hoarse  cheering  of  the  crowd  outside.  But  though 
they  listened,  smiling  sometimes,  because  the  laughter 
of  a  great  concourse  is  strangely  infectious,  their  eyes 
watched  the  tellers  at  the  board  of  green  cloth  where 
piles  of  voting  papers  were  being  counted  and  sorted, 
each  paper  fluttering  from  hand  to  hand,  swiftly  as  if 
it  had  a  life  of  its  own,  until  it  lay  dead  upon  one  of 
the  last  piles.  A  voice  shouted  out  the  numbers,  a 


312  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

hoarse,  husky  voice,  and  another  voice  repeated  them, 
a  thin,  querulous  Cockney  voice. 

Wingfield  .  Six  hundred 

Heath     .  .  Four  hundred  and  two 

Heath     .  .  Four  hundred  and  three 

Wingfield  .  Six  hundred  and  one 

Heath     .  .  Four  hundred  and  four 

Heath     .  ...  Four  hundred  and  five 

Heath     .  .  Four  hundred  and  six 

Wingfield  .  Six  hundred  and  two. 

Although  at  first  sight  it  seemed  as  if  the  people  in 
the  room  belonged  to  the  same  company,  an  observer 
would  have  realised  that  in  reality  they  belonged  to  two 
groups,  between  whom  there  was  antagonism. 

A  low  buzz  of  conversation  met  from  either  side  of 
the  room,  but  did  not  intermingle  across  an  invisible 
barrier.  The  centre  of  one  group  was  a  man  who  does 
not  need  special  description.  It  was  David  Heath,  the 
blacksmith's  son,  now  a  rather  methodistical-looking 
man  in  a  frock-coat,  with  a  white  collar,  into  which 
his  firm  chin  was  buried  as  he  sat  with  his  legs  stretched 
out  and  with  folded  arms.  His  heavy  brows  were  drawn 
down  into  a  frown  as  he  listened  to  the  monotonous 
counting  in  while  his  name  was  repeated  fifty  times  a 
minute;  but  his  eyes  were  keen  and  alert,  and  he  smiled 
when  frequently  a  friend  at  his  side  patted  his  shoul- 
der with  an  encouraging  gesture,  or  another  tapped  him 
on  the  knees  with  a  word  of  triumph. 

"You  are  winning,  my  boy.    You  are  creeping  up." 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  313 

"He  is  still  two  hundred  ahead." 

"It  was  two  hundred  and  fifty  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"It  will  be  a  close  thing." 

"Wingfield  doesn't  look  too  happy." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  Stretton  Wingfield 
stood  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  a  handsomely  dressed 
woman  with  a  plain,  good-humoured  face,  of  which  the 
most  noticeable  features  were  an  upturned  nose  and 
rather  large  black  eyes.  She  whispered  merrily  at 
times  with  six  or  seven  young  men  surrounding  her, 
tapping  one  on  the  arm  when  he  burst  into  a  rather 
noisy  laugh,  and  shaking  a  finger  at  another  when  he 
swore  softly  as  there  was  a  run  of  votes  for  Heath. 
Stretton  was  restless,  and  walked  several  times  to  the 
window  to  look  on  the  crowd  and  to  breathe  the  fresh 
air  of  the  night.  It  was  his  face  that  was  seen  in  profile 
by  the  crowd,  who  greeted  him  with  mingled  groans 
and  cheers.  Stretton  listened  to  the  noise  and  tried  to 
understand  its  significance.  Sometimes  the  groaning 
was  loudest  and  heralded  his  defeat,  sometimes  the 
cheering  was  predominant  and  promised  victory. 

He  tried  to  hide  his  uneasiness,  and  spoke  a  few 
joking  words  to  his  wife.  But  he  bit  a  finger-nail  to 
the  quick,  and  every  now  and  then  passed  a  cold  hand 
over  a  haggard  face.  He  glanced  frequently  at  his 
opponent,  and  envied  him  his  calmness.  Once  after  a 
long  spell  of  votes  for  Heath  their  eyes  met  with  a 
flash  of  triumph  on  the  one  side  and  hatred  on  the 
other. 

To  all  but  those  two  men  in  the  room,  whose  political 


314  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

fate  was  being  counted  out,  the  contest  had  nothing 
unusual  in  its  character,  and  was  no  more  nor  less 
exciting  than  any  other  election.  They  did  not  know 
that  a  more  intensely  human  drama  was  being  played 
out  to  its  climax  in  that  room.  They  did  not  guess 
that  one  man  was  seeking  vengeance  and  the  other 
sanctuary  and  self-defence.  Only  the  two  candidates 
knew  that  this  was  a  duel,  with  Fate  or  Luck,  as  the 
umpire.  David  Heath,  as  he  sat  there  with  folded 
arms,  outwardly  so  calm,  was  praying  God  that  he 
might  come  out  on  top  with  Wingfield  crushed  and 
broken  at  his  feet.  He  thought  of  Alicia,  who  had  been 
betrayed  and  abandoned  by  that  smiling  scoundrel  who 
had  sold  himself  to  a  rich  wife,  and  he  prayed  in- 
articulately, but  with  devotion,  that  to-night  he  might 
give  him  his  punishment.  Six  months  had  passed  since 
he  had  heard  of  Stretton  Wingfield's  abandonment  of 
Alicia,  and  he  had  been  like  Hamlet,  who  kept  putting 
off  the  vengeance  upon  his  uncle.  He  had  sworn  to 
break  the  man's  body,  but  it  was  better  to  crush  his 
soul.  And  the  chance  had  come.  God  had  given  his 
enemy  into  his  hands !  When  David  Heath  heard  that 
Wingfield  was  standing  for  Brixton  on  the  Constitu- 
tional side  his  heart  leapt  within  him,  for  the  "S.F.L." 
had  already  chosen  him — David  Heath — the  Master 
of  Erasmus — to  contend  the  seat  for  the  Socialists. 
He  sent  a  personal  challenge  to  Stretton: — 

"We  fought  once  before  in  a  dark  lane.     Now  we 
shall  fight  in  the  open  and  in  the  light  of  day.     But 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  315 

I  will  complete  the  punishment  this  time,  and  the 
memory  of  the  woman  whom  you  betrayed  will  not 
make  your  defeat  less  bitter." 

He  regretted  having  sent  this  letter,  which  he  had 
written  in  a  moment  of  unbalanced  mind  when  anger 
and  hatred  blinded  him.  But  he  knew  that  he  had 
stung  Wingfield  to  the  quick,  and  he  was  not  sorry  for 
that.  On  both  sides  the  contest  had  been  fought  with 
the  gloves  off.  David  Heath  had  not  scrupled  to  attack 
his  opponent's  private  character,  and  the  name  of 
"Judas"  was  the  watchword  of  the  Socialists.  Wing- 
field  had  retorted  with  equal  animosity,  and  jeered  at 
"the  village  blacksmith"  as  an  ignorant  demagogue  and 
a  political  prig.  But  "Judas"  was  the  more  effective 
word,  for  the  British  public  hates  a  turncoat,  and  they 
still  remembered  the  Individualist  campaign. 

As  the  figures  neared  their  totals  conversation 
ceased,  and  all  in  the  room  crowded  to  the  tables. 
David  Heath  left  his  chair,  and  stood  motionless  by 
the  tellers.  Wingfield  gnawed  at  his  finger-nail  again, 
and  his  anxiety  was  evident. 

He  still  led.  He  had  a  thousand  and  fifty  votes  to 
David  Heath's  thousand  and  twenty.  But  Heath's 
numbers  had  been  steadily  mounting  up,  and  now  he 
came  closer  and  closer  until  they  stood  even  at  a  thou- 
sand and  eighty.  Wingfield  was  white  to  the  lips, 
though  he  smiled  cheerfully  as  his  wife  glanced  at  him 
with  an  expression  of  concern. 

There  was  only  one   ballot-box  left,   and   as   the 


316  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

papers  tumbled  out  and  flew  from  hand  to  hand  there 
was  no  doubt  as  to  the  result.  Heath's  name  was  re- 
peated monotonously,  and  Wingfield  scored  but  ten 
more  votes.  The  totals  were  flashed  from  the  board 
outside. 

DAVID  HEATH  (S.)  .     Total  2225 

STRETTON  WINGFIELD  (C.)     .     Total  1090 

Socialist  gain 

A  storm  of  cheering  battered  the  Town  Hall,  shak- 
ing the  floors  and  windows;  it  rolled  upwards  in  great 
volleys  of  dull  sound,  and  the  silence  in  the  upper 
room  seemed  more  intense  because  of  the  tumult  with- 
out. 

A  dozen  hands  patted  David  Heath  on  the  back. 
But  for  a  few  moments  he  was  not  conscious  of  these 
congratulations.  He  stood  motionless  still,  with  his 
arms  folded  across  his  broad  chest.  He  glanced  at 
his  opponent,  but  strangely  enough,  now  that  victory 
was  in  David's  hands,  he  did  not  feel  that  sense  of 
triumph  over  a  fallen  foe  which  he  had  anticipated 
as  one  of  the  sweets  of  victory. 

As  the  result  was  declared  Stretton  swayed  a  little 
and  breathed  heavily.  The  room  was  hot  and  he  felt 
faint,  and  there  was  a  loud  singing  in  his  ears  which 
drowned  the  shouting  of  the  mob.  So  he  had  failed! 
Curse  it,  he  had  failed!  .  .  . 

Then  he  remembered.  He  must  play  the  part  of  a 
man.  Hang  it  all,  he  was  a  Wingfield,  and  he  must  not 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  317 

show  the  white  feather  before  his  own  class!  His 
brain  cleared,  and  he  laughed,  quite  naturally  and 
easily. 

"Better  luck  next  timel"  he  said. 

He  went  over  to  David  Heath. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said.  "It  has  been  a  splen- 
did fight  .  .  .  and  the  best  man  has  won." 

He  spoke  the  words  gallantly  and  held  out  his  hand. 

David  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  in  that  moment 
he  realised  the  admirable  courage,  the  splendid  "good 
form"  of  his  opponent. 

He  took  Stretton's  hand  and  grasped  it. 

"You  are  very  generous,"  he  said. 

A  week  later  David  Heath,  M.P.,  travelled  down  to 
Long  Stretton.  He  wore  a  rough  brown  suit  and  a 
felt  hat,  in  which  he  was  more  easy  than  in  the  frock- 
coat  of  his  London  life.  As  he  strode  down  the  village 
his  friends  greeted  him  with  deference,  not  perhaps 
without  a  touch  of  hostility.  They  felt  that  he  had 
"got  beyond  them."  But  in  his  native  air  he  lightly 
assumed  his  old  yokel  slouch  and  the  broad  burr  of  his 
country  speech.  Jonathan  was  standing  at  the  door 
of  his  shed,  and  father  and  son  met  each  other  after 
many  months  with  that  silent  hand-grip  which,  to  most 
Englishmen,  is  more  eloquent  than  many  words. 

That  evening  as  David  in  his  shirt  sleeves  was  play- 
ing on  the  anvil  again,  "to  pull  his  muscles  up,"  as  he 
explained  to  Jonathan,  who  sat  smoking  and  watching 
him  with  placid  enjoyment,  a  woman's  figure  stood 
framed  in  the  doorway.  David  saw  her,  and  dropped 


318  THE  INDIVIDUALIST 

his  hammer  and  then,  to  hide  a  sudden  embarrassment 
that  seized  him,  unrolled  his  shirt  sleeves  and  but- 
toned them  at  the  wrist. 

It  was  Alicia  who  came  in  quietly. 

She  was  looking  thin,  and  there  were  a  few  grey 
threads  in  the  brown  coil  of  her  hair.  But  there  was 
a  healthy  colour  in  her  cheeks  and  a  look  of  quiet 
peace  in  her  eyes.  She  was  dressed  in  white  with  a 
rose  at  her  breast,  and  a  broad  straw  hat  shaded  her 
face. 

She  gave  both  her  hands  to  David,  and  smiled  at 
him  with  her  old  steady  friendliness,  without  a  trace 
of  that  affectation  which  spoils  so  many  women's  smiles. 

"It  is  always  good  to  see  you  at  home,"  she  said. 
"You  are  so  naturally  a  blacksmith." 

David  laughed. 

"You  mean  to  say  I  am  so  unnatural  as  a  member  of 
Parliament." 

"Well,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  fact.  But  I  am 
very  glad  of  it.  You  have  done  splendidly,  and  it  was 
always  my  hope  for  you." 

She  took  a  seat  on  the  anvil,  just  as  she  used  to  in 
the  old  days,  and  to  David  it  seemed  then  that  all  that 
had  happened  between  that  time  and  this  was  nothing 
but  a  dream. 

Jonathan  got  up  presently  and,  on  the  pretext  of 
stoking  the  kitchen  fire,  left  them  alone. 

For  a  while  they  talked  casually,  and  Alicia  gave 
him  the  gossip  of  the  village  and  news  of  Miss  Cecily, 


THE  INDIVIDUALIST  319 

who  was  now  a  prisoner  in  the  Hall,  a  very  frail  and 
delicate  little  invalid. 

Presently  David  spoke  abruptly  of  what  was  in  his 
heart. 

"Will  you  still  refuse  what  I  have  asked  so  long?" 

Alicia  looked  at  him  gravely  and  without  emotion. 
She  put  her  hand  upon  his  knee  as  he  sat  beside  her 
on  a  wooden  bench. 

"It  is  too  soon  to  talk  of  that.  ...  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  you,  David.  Your  friendship  has  been  so  loyal 
and  good  and  true.  I  have  sometimes  thought  lately 
that  such  friendship  would  be  a  better  security  in  mar- 
riage than  the  feverish  passion  that  is  called  love.  .  .  . 
But  I  could  not  go  to  you  with  a  heart  that  is  only 
half-healed,  that  is,  indeed,  often  raw  and  bleeding." 

"I  will  not  be  impatient,"  said  David  humbly. 

"No,  let  us  have  patience.  There  is  a  wonderful 
magic  in  that.  I  find  that  patience  brings  peace,  and 
that  is  better  and  more  enduring  than  the  excitement 
of  joy,  which  so  soon  passes —  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  David.  "I  am  an  optimist,  and 
t  believe  in  joy  .  .  .  though  I  have  not  yet  tasted  it." 

Alicia  smiled,  and  there  was  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"Be  patient,  my  friend,"  she  said. 


THE   END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
at  the  Price  You  Like  to  Pay" 


There  Are  Two  Sides 
to  Everything — 

— including  the  wrapper  which  covers 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book.  When 
you  feel  in  the  mood  for  a  good  ro- 
mance, refer  to  the  carefully  selected  list 
of  modern  fiction  comprising  most  of 
the  successes  by  prominent  writers  of 
the  day  which  is  printed  on  the  back  of 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book  wrapper. 

You  will  find  more  than  five  hundred 
titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every 
mood  and  every  taste  and  every  pocket- 
book. 

Don't  forget  the  other  side,  but  in  case 
the  wrapper  is  lost,  write  to  the  -publishers 
for  a  complete  catalog. 


There  is  a  Grosset  &  Dunlap  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL  ' 


n  11111  iiiii  iiiii  11111  mil  11111  mil  mi  mi  ill 
A     000127930     6 


